Stuck

Sitting here, pen in hand

With a problem

Blake, Duffy and Eliot would understand

Three minutes it hit, though it didn't seem as long

Inspiration hit

Mallet to gong

With every reverberation

Forming stanza, structure, sound

For this god given creation

The pen rocketed as the ideas flew

The ink impressing the centre of the soul

And every poetic skill it knew

But any gong once hit

Must eventually stop

And so the flow slows

I tried to save it, honest i did

I clenched and pinched at the last inch

Of the last syllable of the last word

But alas, it is too late

The structures gone

The rhyming has deceased.

Crap

Now al that can be done

Is to sit

And wait

For the next... HIT!

Robyn xxx

11/08/2008