In the flurried, frenzied madness
are the words that never come.
There’s a sorrowful, silent sadness
like a rain soaked, broken drum.
When your spirit’s badly broken,
when the mocking page stares back,
and you’re reaching, reaching, reaching
down a hole that’s cold and black,
When the thirst is quenched within you
and imagination dies,
And the fire’s banked inside you,
no one’s there to hear your cries.
Go and order a tequila.
Go and throw a ball or two,
and somewhere between the sun and moon,
the words return to you.
For they never really leave you.
You’re a writer, after all.
When you give them life and purpose
they will answer to your call.
In the frenzied, furrowed madness,
they will answer to your call…