#730 poetry as discipline

waiting for the right letters to drip from fingertips to keyboard keys
the writer curses his routine
questions his competence
and blames distraction
if ideas spawn ideas
why aren't there more of them
he's written infinite poems in his head and in his bed
but putting them to paper or screen
always seems like bad timing
and so they sit
dying
in his head and in his bead
unwritten and unshared
rotting