If I was her
I would be somewhere else.
A marathon in front
of where I am now
and the path would not look
I would know how to walk it
at the knees,
each time the ground shakes.
I would be someone worth
taking a chance on.
Today I wanted to be creative.
I wanted the words to flow
Four am wake ups from rogue ideas
And conceded scribbles to bribe back sleep.
I needed the clatter of keyboards
Rattling my mind for the last drops
Waiting for the final thunk of gold
The smudges of ink that pulled a chapter whole.
Instead I got the crumpled paper
Of half hearted attempts to write.
Jottings, notes and contradicting plots
Which spin webs of confusion in my mind.
Works that once seemed good
Fractured beneath my own acid gaze.
I’m supposed to be a writer
Why can I not pin you down?
Where’s my sledge hammer for this block?
How do you bury my words so far beneath ground?