• My pencil fell into the road,
• Full of the words I thought I’d write,
• Wood splintered and crushed,
• Graphite became dust
• When traffic ignored its plight.

• As the pencil was pummeled,
• The eraser from fitting was thrown
• And laid in the gutter
• Away from the clutter,
• Beginning a life of its own.

• So if it seems I am speechless,
• As if I had nothing important to say,
• I’d write if I could,
• But the prospects aren’t good.
• I’ve lost my pencil today!

• I wish that at eight
• It wasn’t too late
• For the poetry to rise to the top
• That the ideas, that woke me at two and four,
• Hadn’t ground to a stop.

• That the dreams which seemed so reachable
• Remained with me
• Fresh and new.
• But alas, instead,
• When I lift my head,
• They run into the bed
• And are forever hidden
• From view.

(Find freelance writing and business tips at Older Space).