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Poetic License

The Stare 

The page (with lines or not)
stares at me
with my
pen
aimed at it
waiting for something
wonderful
exacting
insightful
penetrating
to appear
as if words flow
easily on the white,yellow sheet.
 
Then the doorbell rings,
dinner is ready
and the cat needs brushing,
so its easier to leave
my desk
and tend to other matters.
The lines align themselves
against me, I say--
bars to conspire against progress.
 
I break the pencil,
throw the pen and
wad the paper up.
 
Tonight I'll
build a fire
and
stare into it
for
hours.

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I write, therefore I think.