Again

This is one I wrote about why I write

I can feel a

tug

A slight pull to

the back

The sense that

someone speaks

But I’m not sure

from where

The itch on your hand

now your leg

now your face

now gone again

I feel a sensation

tiny vibrations

In the back of

my head

Where my hopes, dreams

and loves

Are created once

now and again

It’s the sense

that right, wrong

And all steps between

are thrown in

the air with

both hands...

And what follows

the furious flurry

of Poets creation

Is not a deep sense

of sweet pure

elation-

you know the one

that usually

comes with completion-

But the knowledge that

this is only

the inception

Of things so

much more to

come...

I reach back to

the place where I

first felt the pull

And realize it is

but the stone at

the bottom of

the hill...

If I pull too hard

I get buried

beneath my own

insurmountable cairn of

jewels, gems and words...

Or

I can leave it

to be and maybe

never see what sits

beneath the pile...

So, what shall I do?

What will I do?

I look farther

inside of this

mind open wide

And realize there

is but one thing

to do

Not really so much

’cause I want, need

or have to

For my sake, or the

sake of my art

But to keep myself

sane, with a normal

(sort of) brain

I reach down

and pull at this

bottom-most stone

And with pen clasped

tight, in a grip

never ceasing

I will write and

write again

skill, power and

art ever-increasing

until my mind

breathes free

Again