Too Bad For Me

It’s been so long
These words stuck
In the crevices of nothingness
And I couldn’t reach them
Nor pry them out
Much as I tried
I strained
And broke a neuron
And lost what could have been
The greatest words
Ever written
Too bad
No luck for me
I’ll just get back
To my coffee…

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Writing Mood

Why does writing sometimes depend on one’s mood?
I’d surely like to write everyday
but I’m not a happy everyday person.
And even on those gloomy days
that might inspire soul-reaching verses,
the passion flits away
like a moth who lost sight
of the light.

Is there a trick or a shortcut?
I’d love to fill my pages
every time my hands begin itching
to reach for the pen.
There must be a wellspring somewhere
for writers like me –
to draw out some want,
some motivation
to dirty a blank slate.

I have the heart of a writer,
but my hands are too attached
to my brain.
I need a machine to feed me
the words I need to create
the pages I want to read.

Where’s my machine?