There are some days when the words on my page are empty,
when all the adjectives in the world can't pry life from text,
and ideas claw at the walls which restrain them,
but leave gouges only fingernail deep.
Yet I write, or I try, but the words fall flat
as the page on which they lay.
There are some days when words turn their backs and run,
evading my tenuous mental grasp,
mocking me with mediocrity where once was passionate expression,
leading me, blind, along passages twining through my mind,
and disappearing when I hit a dead end,
abandoning me to find my own course back to the core of my thoughts.
There are times I want to let myself simply pour out all that I am,
like the spilled milk over which nobody cried,
but I find myself caught by nets of fraying phrases,
and nothing of substance can reach through.
I hope today is not one of those days
because flat words are only as good as their texture.