Work In Progress

Sometimes, it takes more 

than a pretty picture of endless dirt road

to pull a poem out of me.

Sometimes it takes hours

of pulling my hair out with 

my little leather journal.

Nothing sounds right.

But I keep writing

all day, everyday

about nothing 

and everything

all tangled together

in bad poem after bad poem.

And in the end 

the only thing I've written

about that endless dirt road is this:

I don't know what scares me most

the journey or the end.