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I am at a loss to write

There are times I sit with pen in hand,
staring into the blank heart of the unmarked page,
as if it were a pond and I—a boy with no fish to show.

Words won’t come, as stubborn as a mule,
having wandered off to some far corner of the farm.
I am left with the rustle of the wind,
the idle chatter of the keyboard ticking time away.

Yes, in an old-world style I toy with rhymes,
abab or sometimes sonnet-like, an antique practice.
I count on fingers, aloud, like a child lost in his first arithmetic,
a bit of drama to lend the stage some mystique.

I’m not here to boast, certainly not to preen.
Go on, deliver your critique; let it fall where it may.
Criticism slides right off this waterproof coat.

But these scribbles, these lines—
they prop me up, a wooden cane for the mind.
They are the spinning of dreams into a kind of silk thread,
each word an attempt to touch, to feel,
each period a small stop sign, halting the flow.

I confess a simple truth, no silver tongue is mine.
I am the broken typewriter, keys jammed mid-sentence.
I am the stuttering poet, words spilled in disarray.

Yet, O Reader, you with your sharpened gaze,
peruse these lines where effort outweighs talent.
See this dyslexic jester juggling letters,
more for his own amusement than the court's adoration.

And so, I concede defeat, the white flag raised.
This canvas remains blank, the brushes dry.
After all, the stars remain untouched by my reach—
the Bard's crown resting on another’s head.

self criticalcommunicationprosewriting

◄ Single Father

Weaving Lines ►


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