Writing Poems

How amazing would it be if the pencil severed from the tree found leaded gas stored in that carbon cylinder number two with script self administered. Paper and pen, they blend. The mind and thinking process though seems held back, hindered, lost and slow. The key strokes on the other hand slip slide and mix poetic words hidden, crammed. Wait and hold, poems will unfold. It appears at night that word and phrase finally alight desperate to be displayed and flow light and quick as falling snow. Poise and listen, new poems will soon be written.