the push
or pull I
used to feel
that compelled me to write
has taken
root in my fingers
and ears
I write
six string sonnets
that the world may never hear
like the words
I so often wrote
that the world may never read
like the
paintings in my mind
that may never reach the canvas
like the thoughts
that I dream
never seeing their realization
I pour my heart into my passions
but time is the constraint
if I had all the time in the world
I'd probably be
just as sad
