Writing

I dedicate this poem to my friend cel,
whose poetry more often than not rhymes,
when mine more often than not doesn't.
This one is your fault.

I write when the world is quiet
and everyone's asleep,
the phone is still,
I don't hear a peep.

The tick of the clock,
the only sound,
is when the words come crashing
in leaps and bounds.

I must force myself to sit;
Butt In Chair, Hands On the Keys,
a little nudge to the Muse,
and pray I don't freeze.

Fiction flows fast
when on the laptop I do type.
Poetry comes best
when in longhand I do write.

Journaling comes easy
at the kitchen table.
Research is always
when the desktop is able.

Writing comes easiest
when I'm away from home;
Starbucks, Borders, Barnes & Noble,
or at a friends' when they're on the roam.

Writing is my life's blood,
as you can see.
It's the one thing that makes me
me.


©2010 Shawn Ann Murray