A rush of words fill my head

And they stumble, tripping their way out

Competing to be the first, the last, any where

I overflow, spilling upon the page

Soaking it with thoughts of beauty




And then, as sudden as it started it


I struggle for one word, let alone a full stanza

Quietly I listen, but not a sound is heard

The sea of overflowing words in gone.




As suddenly as it rushed upon me

It leaves not a stream, trickle, puddle

Not even a drip or drop

For me to patter on with

Nothing with which to struggle with

No seed to grow or nurture

No inkling to ink my pages

No muse to muse about

No light to illuminate my darkened mind

Oh how I wish to cry

But even that has dried

-Kel Dayheart



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