I am cold
and I know there's poetry forming in my mind.
it rises to the surface and seems to make off like heat
out of the little goosebumps prickling up my arms so
I try hard not to think about blankets and tea and
warm food steaming aromatically,
this thought is just too important. so
pretty soon, the sheet's a penciled mess of prose
horrendously mutilated in the battle to bring down my thoughts
But my toes are frozen stiff and when I look down, I know the
poetry has escaped me again.
Author notes
Sometimes, I get really good ideas and it makes me go cold all over, goosebumps and all. And I start writing but I can't find the words, and eventually, the idea is gone and not as magical as before, like steam rising off a body.
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