I flip forward
through the blank pages
in my mind.
Is this the place to begin?
Nearer the end. To set myself
a goal at which to aim,
but what if I miss the ball,
or skew the shot so much
it clears the floodlights
landing outside with a thud.
Sending myself into a spin,
trying to make this jigsaw fit,
I'm sure these pieces should stick,
to make the beginning hit
the ending with
a crashing crescendo.
Oh no.
What if I lose the flow?
Going backwards
probably won't do.
I slow down my thoughts.
Maybe I should
start from the start.
Just write what occurs,
I'm writing a book of course,
only I can't seem to get the parts
to line up for a chorus. It's total chaos.
A cast of players, all dancing off
in their own worlds, unlinked storylines,
Mis-inked plot outlines,
missing personal deadlines.
Maybe I should dive into the middle
then work my way outwards,
like a ripple on a clear lake.
The little waves excitedly explore
the watery escape, this liquid estate.
I have ideas lying in wait.
Maybe this one is a mistake,
what if I start writing,
is it then too late to change?
Talking of too late,
the moon has been and gone,
the sun is totally burning my skin,
and the birds are on song.
Maybe I'll start later
when the moon returns
from the lands beyond.
Thanks for reading
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