In that window,
where so often I sit
seeing the moon dwell
upon the deep ink of space.
Words start to form
as quickly as an alarm rings
when your head falls to the pillow
and your body gets warm.
Inspiration. It shouts,
in words too loud to pick out,
but then it calms
and you can pick
the dawning sunshine
out of the awkward words.
Plucking meaning
from each daisy petal syllable
that you then scatter
across the ground.
Now write it yells,
five minutes I expect a poem
to drip from your quill.
Bleary eyes search for scraps,
torn paper pages awakened inside.
In the chaos that rages
I jot down lines.
Underline, then scribble them out.
The words striking fear within,
the clock begins to shout
with each creaking tick
and every aching tock,
as I scrape more scraps
into the mental wastebin.
Why can't I write? These words
repeat over the page in my head.
The table lamp beside the bed
bleeding shadows of doubt
onto the walls, both inside and out.
Then a lullaby calls,
back into the arms
of sleep I fall,
where inspiration lives,
in the dreams that I call,
home.
The words soon start to form
in front of dreaming eyes,
to peruse
like a pick and mix sweetshop
filled with wonderful delights.
I taste a bit of this,
a touch of that,
some candied verse,
with a sweet outlook,
and I awake refreshed,
pen clutched
tightly to my chest,
and I write.
Thanks for reading
Follow this link for more.
https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff
continue to do this.
Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle
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