My fingers meander over the keyboard leisurely
While my thoughts follow along…
Sometimes slowly…
Sometimes tripping over each other…
It doesn’t matter how, only that they do.
Meanwhile, my fingers keep wandering,
Wondering what will come next.
There are moments when it seems
These things just write themselves.
At other times, every word is a struggle.
Nevertheless, I write. I must write.
Occasionally it feels like
Compulsion rather than inspiration,
And I wonder why I bother doing it,
But the satisfaction in the end result
Is like a carrot on a stick,
Or a fresh baked cookie just out of the oven
Smelling sooooo… wonderful,
I can hardly wait to finish a piece
To get that taste of accomplishment.
On the other hand,
The pleasure in the process keeps me
Putting more words down on paper—
Well, at least figuratively anyway.
I like the gentle rhythm of speaking,
Because even when I say nothing out loud,
The words sound in my head
Like a speech or a song, or even…
(And here I laugh behind my hand)
…A poem!
Next project on my list:
Write a new poem,
And another,
And another…
Because I can’t “not write.�
Folding my hands and thoughts into stillness
Is very difficult for me.
So I’m content to let my fingers
Tap out random thoughts and words
For now.
Eventually they will shape themselves
Into some palatable form.
In the meantime,
I type on.
