(I had a dry spell but thanks to a friend, am coming back).
I go to poetry readings to find,
to steal,
seedlings for my own plantings.
But my fountain pen bleeds,
leaks on my hands,
stanches words.
The dark villain in the shadows,
my own toxic narrative,
eats my purpose,
burns away my confidence.
But my man in Nebraska
nut taps me and says,
"Stop whining and get writing."
"Do the grind."
Stop the whine.
Put in the time.
Just write.
Even if you don't like it,
when you're stuck in middle,
don't stay stuck in the muck.
Keep slogging through.
Your feet will find solid ground.
It's just the way of things.