The last hour or so,
spent pen in hand,
Yields vast amounts of inky paper,
but very little of substance.
I sort through my wanderings,
Perhaps highlight a few thoughts for future reference
but the rest just float away.
A hero of mine once said
“This makes me mad
I’ve got to write a song about it”
What he really meant was
there is too much emotion for one
it comes bursting out,
hissing, burning, boiling onto the page.
Some go on rampage,
striking out at the innocent loved
Others sweetly sing their pain.
I have no such noble gift
I merely wander across the page,
and spew forth onto the hapless paper
Often suprised in retrospect
at the steps I have taken.