I'm never afraid when I am with you,
nor when I have an audience
I'm always onstage,
the lights in my face,
never out of costume

But only I know about the times
standing alone in a library
looking at endless lists of names
and wondering,
how on earth will I ever be good enough
How on earth will I ever be
the voice, the chartalan of powerful words
of worlds I've never seen?

Disappointment
Sinking slowly when
All I see isn't him
That expected face
Long-awaited, even
Promised
No warning
No justification, just
Gone
His missing face
Steals my joy
His missing face
Builds my frustration
His missing face
Snuffs my hopes for today
And raises my hopes for tomorrow

“I love the writing life,” was the last sentence I wrote in my journal before I went to sleep last night. And it’s absolutely true – most of the time. Of course, if you flip back through the earlier pages of my journal, you’ll find at least three or four entries declaring my complete frustration and disgust with writing and everything pertaining thereunto. Those entries are absolutely true as well. Which made me start thinking: if I really love writing, why do I get so frustrated with it? If I really hate it, why do I devote so much time and energy to it?

A rather exaggerated account of being frustrated with an uncooperative poem.

**********************************

Obstinate words! refusing to rhyme,
Simply becoming a waste of my time.
Crumple the paper, drop the pen.
Don't even want to SEE that line again!

Why do I bother? The more I insist,
The more these stubborn syllables resist!
I'm no poet, why even try?
One more failed idea...I'll start to cry!

Lazy-leafed sentinels
Looked down to see a solitary shape
Staring ahead intently while brown ghosts
Melted by on either side
And, laughing
Moved on

Lifeless white, a waiting page
Speechless, I find myself
Lacking the wisdom to reach the heights
Lacking the love to touch the heart
Lacking the art to touch the soul
While all the right words run away

Formless, thoughts dance through my mind
Desperate prisoners, tightly shut
Lacking the breath to give them life
Lacking the key to break them free
Lacking the form to give them voice
While all the right words run away