There are times when I have to force myself
Not to taste the sound of abandoned thoughts.
Distractions that distort creative wealth
Sometimes keep newness from changing to rot.
I remember when I was able to
Keep the words changing and stable because
Bumps that come with the world were ones I knew.
I wish the poem was done when I was,
And not after my fingers squirmed to find
Delete, eraser, the ability
To seek solace while striking through my
Careful meaning etched with a pen that sees.
I am counting all the lines I wrote in,
Hoping I can find an answer within.