The Nudging

What's with this nudging- this perpetual nudging from deep within, urging me to write a poem? A poem of feelings, of rhythm and imagery. And I am willing- Grasping for words, phrases, perhaps something in iambic pentameter. But I am so spaced out. I swivel my eyes- back to front, peering into the folds of my spaced-out mind. My impenetrable gaze sifts through gray matter, where arteries pulse with bright scarlet oxygenated blood, where veins run deep purple, flushed, delicate pink. It is quite extraordinary. I could write of colors, I could paint with words- but there is nothing there. No angst in me, nothing provoking, nothing bothersome, boiling, nor bubbling. Just the nudging, this perpetual nudging.