for the writer / some place with strength

you're hands hold writing block in one,
and a sense of loss in the other.
in you're heart, the constant fear of failing,
not being good enough to love.

and you try.

you're feet walk empty roads, and ocean banks,
only one set of footprints.
in you're hands, the summer air
not enough to fill this place.

you try.

you're mornings waking up with music,
sip tea waiting for good weather.
you're hands hold old paper, quill pens in the other,
trying to find someplace to write.

------------

it feels a lot like
that kind of day.
give me a reason to run
somewhere with water.
or somewhere quiet, a monestary.
give me a reason.

i'm not much
of a poet today.
not much of a wordsmith
or writer of prose.
i'm not much built for
these sorts of days.
even so, i've done alright.

it feels much like,
those days of longing
to write beside a brook.
to be somewhere else,
with no real reason, i suppose.
some place with strength.
or somewhere with the sound of running water.