My poems often come to me at the worst moments.
Sometimes, I’ll be waiting in line at the grocery store, when all of a sudden a thought pops into my head, so extreme, so intense, so fast, that it can’t be stopped. I rush through the line, run out to my car, and by the time I pull out my phone the thoughts have rushed out of me, like the falls, the Niagra one, so big, rushing, and wet. And just like that, every word that I felt like I needed to say is gone.
I think about those words often, wondering where they would go, where they could go. I wish and will them to come back, but I know they won’t. Just like everything else, their time with has passed. They’ve gone away, passed onto Heaven. I hope it’s good for them up there. I hope they have found a warm place to say. Those dead poems. Those empty words. Full of nothing, but not really.
They meant something to me once. They held a portion of my brain. They were important. They paved the way for something else, something greater, something…else.
I miss those words. I will think about them often, with a jolt, and wonder if they are in a better place. They deserved a better home than me. They deserved a better vessel, than the one I could provide. The problem is, I’m always misplacing things. I’m always mixing things up, distorting reality with the real world. I will think a thought that was a dream and make believe it’s real.
There’s nothing I can do about this. This problem. This never ending issue. I wait for the words to come, hoping they will make an appearance that suits us all. Maybe, but otherwise, I will wait at my desk, hands poised, writing something else.
The next big hit.