The words flow unerringly until
I really, really need them to.
Then they're all anywhere but
where I want them to be.
Off to Hawaii,
or deep below
Antarctic
ice melts.
Gone.

A billion ideas buzzing around my brain
pulling me this way and that
enticing me with the promise of the new
drawing me away from the projects I've been working at for months.
But I must not give in to their tiny excited voices.

If I ran off with every far-flung plot that my mind spat out,
I'd never get anything done.

So I scribble down just enough to remember them later
and slam my notebook shut on their cajoling.
"I'll return to them another day", I tell myself.
But first, I have to finish this...

A deep inky lake
rippling across white pages.
Never stops flowing.

'Tis the month of feverish scribbling!

What will you do to boost your word count?
Let the word vomit flow?
Eliminate the use of contractions?
Drink every caffeinated and/or sugary substance in sight?
Stay up until sun rises?

However you end up doing it
and however many words you end up writing,
enjoy yourselves,
enjoy your stories,
and don't forget
that only you can write your story.
It is unique
and amazing,
just like you.

Oh, and enjoy the snacks!​

Write on,
NaNo's!!

I swirl into being

a lick of paint
spread thickly across the page
shaped by an unknown hand

do I just sit here
amidst the other colors
while I wait to be altered
​and made into a bigger picture?

The piano keys are discordant
no matter how much you tune them
The guitar has lost its strings
its hollow filled with dust
The gong lays shattered
upon the ground
Yet you stand
untouched
whole.

Words drip halfheartedly from my pen.
The last vestiges of my thoughts
before I dive into bed
and surrender myself
to the drowsiness
that's been coaxing
my eyelids
to droop
closed.

If writing poetry
is sifting through what's in my brain
and making pretty patterns with it on the page,
then what am I supposed to do
when there's nothing in there?

The inside of my skull echoes like a canyon
with not even a scrap of lettering in sight.
I swear I saw mountains of it
just moment ago.
But as soon as I need to harvest some verse
it's all fled
​and left me empty.

Productivity is usually
the goal for me on most days. But
to refill energy, the
top priority is
rest, relaxation,
replenishment,
and a good
stash of
​snacks.

I've found a shard of story.
See how it glimmers in my hand?

It's perfect in its own way,
a slice of soul
crystalized in ink,
brought to life for anyone's mind to enjoy.

But I can't help wondering
from what story was it extracted?
What world is now incomplete,
unbalanced and twisting on its axis.

Is this the life of a hero,
forced by their enemy to finally fall?
Or is it actually that true villain
banished, leaving the world in peace?

I probably should find where it belongs.
Repair the damage that was done.
But I think I'll keep it for a while.
When it catches the light just right,
I can see its story playing out
figures running to and fro,
and hear the far off strains
of a foreign, yet familiar song.