My desk is littered with half read books
journals that I have barely scanned
bits and pieces of sermon notes
and reminders to myself to do something.
On my iPad there are unread poems
that I intend to get to as soon as I can
but there is always something else,
a death this week, a crisis of faith next.
I intend to write more poetry and prose
I want to reveal the inner fears and dreams
yet, those old voices creep shouting
and my own ego is much deflated
as I would rather seek a place away
somewhere deep in the enchanted woods
where I may lay my head and dream in color.
Away from all of the mechanical noises
that burrow into the skull polluting the mind
and overwhelming my ability to just be.
I look now at this poem, this small offering
above it another half written poem awaits.
Deep down I know I want to write
then again,
deep down fear crowds out creativity.
Where do I go from here?
How do I end this poem?
Maybe that’s the answer,
no poem is ever really finished
no poet can ever sit back satisfied
the world is so full of darkness
and I hold a palette of vibrant colors
as I seek to paint with the words I see
streaming across the subconscious
like wild horses running across the plains
unfettered, unafraid, untamed and free.
