Were I an excellent artist

I would be able to fill this

book with words in a single night.

Why can I not summon such

talent to one point?

Why can I not distill the genius

of all my days to come into

one instant of grandeur?

The words are there.

The things are there.

Something blinds me- blocks my mind

from speaking them.

I scratch my way through it

toward an unknowable master,

an unattainable paragon

(or maybe attainable by some)

but not by me

learning on this curve

stopping to rest after

pulling hard against the shackles

of my own creation.