Thoughts Not Yet inked.

Thoughts not yet inked


Endless possibilities
are clustered here
in the tip of my pen,
scratching out brilliance
in neon bright lines,
or utter nonsense
lamely sputtered.

Subject matter is
unlimited but crucial,
it is after all
the deciding factor
yet to be penned.

Awards for poetic
literature may await,
within this
humble Bic refill,
pouring out
side by side with
another silly limerick,
about an old biddy, from the city,
or a grocery list
to sustain my bodily functions.

My hand hangs
poised expectantly,
while the thoughts in my head
are translated into the
language of sign.

Inspiration is
a congregation
of letters away,
It's all a gamble,
an Alpha-Bet
you might say.

Winner takes all
but the loser ends up
with a piece
a lot like this one.

The pen gets a cap,
but no gown,
its course marked incomplete,
as it is laid to rest,
from an exercise in futility.

The hand disperses
into five different directions,
as it fingers the results,
of a poet's average fare.

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