Where are my creative juices?
Should I press them like grapes,
desperately hoping that one more solid stomp
will finally leak out my lost originality?
Or should they be squeezed as an orange,
my fist forcing every precious piece of poetic pulp
be emptied into my newfound word well.
I think I’d like them best from the grapefruit,
sweet, tart, tangy pink, with just a hint of bitter.
Maybe it’s the vegetable, the carrot, that we want,
Surprising, thick, nourishing.

They say they’re supposed to flow, you know.
But where’s the sacred source?
my heart, my hands, my brain, my mouth,
or deep within my lungs?
Oh to chemically exchange my
inhaled oxygen for creativity!
To produce the breath of worded life–
for words move and scream and hurt
and heal–with just a simple gasp!

I wonder, is the flow more like a river,
a smooth stream molding the formation
of phrases, words, sentences and lines
to carry you on the raft built of pages,
to new lands with old friends,
friends like love, pain, passion,
The friends that swirl through your veins
pumping feelings throughout your body,
White water rapids of ecstasy and hurt,
followed by the tame and trepid waters of
dull aching and peaceful dreaming.


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