Writer's Block

He read a poem about his mother,
Moving me enough to walk over to him after the reading was over
But the words I wanted to say condensed and sat cold and slippery...
On the hand that I offered him.
I wanted to tell him that his words were beautiful...
Enough to copy into my quote book.
One oof my favorite things; a selective selection.
I wanted to ask him how I could make someone's quote book--
How to write something that wasn't...
A regurgitation of youthfurl hormones stuffed in thin, plastic bags;
Overflowing like the dumpsters of beer cans behind the row;
Smelling just as foul.
There are poems in my toes, at the bottom of my feet;
Each day they flatten...
Crushed under my weight,
Molding to my instep....
Never making it to my fingers.