Sometimes,
the poem writes itself
and I am merely the typist.
Other times,
the steady flow of words
plows right into an unforgiving roadblock.
At no time,
in the puzzling of words,
is the process as easy as it should be.
When is it time
to abandon a cherished idea,
leaving it to rot with other literary rubbish?
In a future time,
I may want to revive the thoughts
that led me down the road to discontent.
But not at this time.
© Susan Schoeffield 2011
the poem writes itself
and I am merely the typist.
Other times,
the steady flow of words
plows right into an unforgiving roadblock.
At no time,
in the puzzling of words,
is the process as easy as it should be.
When is it time
to abandon a cherished idea,
leaving it to rot with other literary rubbish?
In a future time,
I may want to revive the thoughts
that led me down the road to discontent.
But not at this time.
© Susan Schoeffield 2011
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