Quite often I am on the net, swinging my hands to and fro, in attempts to capture the perfect word. It is a butterfly flitting above the net with which I am working, laughing at my hapless efforts, as I thrust uselessly against the keys to it's capture. It often cannot be stabbed with a pencil or lead to a graphite prison, nor allow itself to be penned in inky darkness, until the light of inspiration shows
its well concealed camoflauge against the white of the tree pulp before me, or the brightly lit screen where it so mockingly refuses to perch. good write....Thanks for sharing. Artis
I love your po-etchings on the workings of a poet mind and extremities, fingers are what happens to an arm when it disagrees with itself. I was going to answer this yesterday but my pencil had a leadache. You touch on many of the reasons and reason as in clear thinking as to why we write, right the wrongs and praise the songs of earth granted to us by the gods. Thanks for sharing.
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