I Woke Up Early To Write

 

I held the reproach of dawn's vigor
briefly. An image was locked in my cup:
A solitary eye, staring from the coffee,
glared, blinked, and blurred in steam.

I set the cup down and sank effectiveless
fingers in crazy hair while the caffiene
tried to resist a flight to dreams.
It was too early to face a blank page.

A cowardly poet, too controlled to rave,
I've come to hate the words that give
life and love and doubt their frames,
their cute arrangements and composure.

I've been waiting years for the perfect
afternoon while my best visions escaped
in a wild flutter of artificial wings,
leaving little feathers of verse behind.

I chew on myself where rejection
has clawed me and find no motivation
in the worried wound. I already know
the roads I will not venture down.

I pull my boots off my tender feet
and blame the path's sharp stones
for sending me back to bed where my
vanity slumbers safe from the light.