The screen says,
“Add a post.” But
I can’t write a damn thing,

except for this and perhaps
the next phrase, and
then the next.

None of it is
a poem, no matter
how much I wish it was —

none of it matters,
as does a poem when captured
in midnight and rushed

to a page. When one
reads such a poem
afterwards, I sit back

and sigh, “there it is;
there’s what I
meant to say,”

and then I seize my guitar
and play clumsy notes,
my hand stumbling.

I wrote something, though.
It is not a song. It is
a poor sort of poetry

laden with a lack of music.
I sit back and sigh. There
will be another chance

to get it right. There will be
(likely) another poem, a second
from now, an eon from now.

The poem yet to come
is the only poem
that keeps me alive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T