No Title

I am trying to draw;

post cards and layers of scribbled
mess and paper cover the table -
there for inspiration as if
it were easy, as if its what I do
every day

four days I have thought and worked;
no closer to a decision than I was a week ago

poetry is nothing like this; it invades me -
a possessive lover sneaking up behind

words fall through the top of my head
like coffee drip-drip-dripping
into my morning pot

they hang heavy in the steam
of my morning shower,
taunting me

I capture them on the mirror,
half-wet and shivering,
only to lose them by the time
I’ve dressed

words are my art

traveling through me like
a brush or pencil put to paper

breaking through to my finger tips,
like tears, lightening bolts, or flowers

I wish I could draw them