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
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