Nikki Maxwell Poet Free verse

untitled poem

my waste basket reclines on a full stomach,
patting a grated belly 
stretching over three course meals 
of rotten ideas.

i ask myself why?
you've had your native tongue for,
how many years?
how many months?
how many days
of chatter and quip
could you have spun?

i count the minutes between pencil strokes,
between lines of order and my graphite mess.
i think the only long word i can properly spell is
Tantalized, but only because it's phonetic.

it's not that i don't want to write.
you could only dream of
how i dream of writing praise-worthy poems; 
maybe one about a bird braving the storm, 
or
how betrayal leaves the
bitter taste of coffee in the mouth.

but then i think of the galleries of poets
who have already written about small birds
or storms, 
or both,
and how coffee really isn't that bitter.

and so 
mind not made,
my paper stares at me 
with blank expression, reflecting
the thick snowy fog 
i'd like to think fills my head
instead of empty space.
the kind that clumps up
and trips over itself
like a hairball stuck in a cat's throat,
or a ball of tangled thread.
uncomfortably clinging like an itchy sweater.

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