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…

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?