Writers Envy

I get jealous over prose who possess the room through her lips phonetic, white lightening, kissing the air with their intonations, evoking my frontal lobe with alliteration and rhythm the shoes upon which to stomp my feet, my feet, my feet aloft this stomping ground in my head where I hunt the mush valleys for a single lotus blossom of inspiration. If I could covet this poet's thoughts her words, her tone, her imagery, my poetry beast would awaken and shake his mane roaring. Instead I sit spellbound, listening to her vowels and consonants fall on the roof of this auditorium like rain pings on aluminum, wondering when her thoughts end and mine begin.