I thought some thoughts and wrote a bit but didn’t say a thing. I hemmed and hawed and typed some words yet nothing seemed to sing. Words fly down on paper, not really what it is… more imaginary vapor, a placement in a schiz… I want to think I’m clever but the cleverer I think. I move but further down the drive and closer to the drink. And why I’m forcing into place some rhymes upon the page, they lose the soul of buoyant thoughts that linger in their cage. Those flashes I thought brilliant that nearly escaped my depths… and now the corner’s painted, am I left in it… inept?
Even more painful in this mirage is when you have completely given up on the rhyming portion and are shrewdly, so you think, trying to string together thoughts that at least sound profound. Now comes the point where you are actually worried that a rhyme might slip in and bring to bare (sic) the whole ruse for everyone to muse… Is it really worth all of this thought? If the heart is true and you have something to say, wouldn’t you just plaster it down on the paper, pouring forth the passions of your essence. It makes sense but sometimes we are too much in our head to see our way down the stairway to the bowels of our emotion. We spend time counting the steps and admiring the bannister and never make it to the place to which the stairs are supposed to lead. And so we bandy… and so we play with words… and so we force ourselves to pretend that what we are saying is something strong and substantive rather than some withering limerick bathed in bass-boat glitter… hoping someone will say it is pretty. Is that where we’ve arrived? Is that where we are heading? On purpose?