Flame thrower

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.