I live my life through ink and quill;
Each thing that happens a story still.
Sometimes events are very sad,
While others make me very mad.
Some have lessons in them to learn;
While others in my soul still burn.
Still others are very happy;
But sometimes words for them get sappy.
My life lies on the written page,
For others to read and gauge.
But for me it’s just how I deal;
And get past each notch in life’s spinning wheel.
Some days ideas just jump into my head,
But then they look around at all the clutter,
Get scared and jump back out again.
Often I catch them before they get away,
But then they just dangle there
Like a fish on a hook waiting to be reeled back in.
The problem is no time, no room, and
No clear thought process that lasts
Long enough bring them to fruition.
If they get away then often I see them,
Peeping in the window reminding me they tried this once already,
And they still don’t see an opening large enough for them to fit.
So I think on them, trying to figure how to make them work.
Often this annoys them, and instead of seeing my solutions,
They disappear taking half my work with me.
This they seem to do just to punish me
For not paying closer attention and making them room
When they first arrived on the scene.
Why do good ideas always come at bad times;
When you have no access to pen and paper,
And then they expect your full attention and memory?
For example, in the shower;
Even if you were to have a pen and paper,
Just try writing in the shower, it will melt and you will never remember it all.
On the Wings of Angels 