The synapses fire
shock upon shock
lines keep on buzzing
to make the gears click,
to see the cogs turn
to open the pathways
for word to fly through
and reach hand and paper
to reach out to you.
The cranks are all whizzing
the gears are all clicking
but nothing gets out
the poet despairs
and calls to his loved ones
and asks them for gifts of
words that are new
asks them for peace
for something, anything that's true.
Inspiration comes calling
at inopportune hours,
to sing sweet melody
and capture the mind
but song swiftly caught
is most easily forgot
the poet will lose track
moaning, crying, pleading,
"Poem, song, beautiful thing
come back, come back, come back!"