unwritten

hmm. all the words un-worked, the ink left in my pen
( the ones before type
before pixelated word replaced indigo altogether)
it turns out that
i can't reconcile
how making them appear on a page can be so easy
but pressing them into hearts and minds Hercules' lot.

sometimes, as they spill from tongues and fingers
it all chokes
midway through thought, partially in phrases, separated in sentences

or worse
the block appears.

the slow one, the mythical beast creeps in for some when happy,
having found peace.
lurking only in melancholic prayers to lost lovers and sorely missed demons

for others in the moments when mist clears,
their mountains visible from even the flattest crests, lovers separated by oceans
and time zones reunited
then they write beauty, lyric, harp songs:
exalted poetry

but what of the time between emotion
when there is nothing to pour, the honey well dry
but still sweet, dewy potential

it's in those times i wonder where the soul's light switch
really dwells,
when waiting for inspiration