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on the tip of the tongue
cascading
a waterfall of thoughts
bubbling

the tip of the pen
inkless

the tips of the fingers
remain poised
over plastic ivory pieces
awaiting command
to begin a keyboard symphony

paused
hesitant
restrained

a thousand jumbled thoughts
a few strung together
precariously conjoined at awkward angles and intervals
but it’s there – I know it’s there!
the piece that begs to be written
the one that no one has said
in quite that (my) way yet

Spit it out, spit it out

You call yourself a poet?
The internal agony of editing
over and over before those words
are even birthed from your lips and fingertips
a fleeting moment
a lyrical line so true that one day
your name
shall rest on the shelf next to Byron and Sandburg

I call myself a poet
I am a long way from that shelf
but dammit, I too have words to write
prose to string, poems to recite

constantly learning how to
spit it out.

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