Pencil presses to paper
While fingertips flood with dread
Tapping, tapping, wheels are turning
Turning inside my head.
I can feel the words I want to say
Beating within my heart
But they’re unattainable,
Possibility plays no part.
Do I rhyme or set words free?
Does this word flow with that?
How can I make this thing I feel
Sound beautiful, not flat?
My teeth clench in subconscious pain,
My fists pull chunks of hair,
My eyebrows furrow
All as nostrils flare.
The pencil moves, writing words, but no—
The lead scratches them out again.
Repeat the process twice over, and finally—
One line finished in vain.
This will take hours, if fortune is kind
To create something called poetry:
Something they love for its words intertwined,
Something they love for simplicity.