Procrastinating again
words flying with the wind
landing on crisp paper
smell of ink in the air
fingers gliding on strings
waiting to be introduced
to those who dare
listen and store away
minor thoughts adrift
on the page.
Like a flame thrower
burning hot
words melt into hearts
get etched deep in minds
as they emerge in time
hot off the press
just before the deadline.
With precise skepticism
I skim the scrawled words
nothing looks correct
yet I detect
some message is hidden
some inspiration has landed
after being ridden
through the cobwebs.
In the corner sits
the wastebasket of thoughts
full to the brim
as I glance over and grin
wondering where’s the flame.
As anticipation stirs to life
the pen begins to flow
the body resting in the lap
waiting to be strummed
it occurs to me
I’m almost done.
Poetry is like a flame thrower
just waiting to burn.
Sizzling! 😉
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Thank you very much! 🌻☕
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🌷☕️
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