With a yellow pad
And a funeral home pen
I struggle with words
Lining them up
To give meaning
To thought
I have not clearly defined
A line of clarification
So many attempts
Stacks of crumbled yellow
Projectiles that do not reach
The overflowing trash can
I struggle
Stopping to read others
Whose hands is guided
By an intellect
I do not possess
I leave the cross-outs
Starts and stops
Then abandoned pieces
I hope to return to
To give order
To rank and align
Metaphors and similes
Until I please me
Some thoughts
Will not let me go
They come back
In various forms
Scolding me
To find my way
From the dry docks
Where my ambition
Is moored
