When I am working, bringing to life my idea
there comes a time when time is not my friend
not the deadline, although there sometimes is one
but a sense of fear, what if I run out of time,
what if I can’t finish this thing I’ve started;
work harder work faster keep going don’t stop.
This is the beast that waits in the corner
Keats saw it and knew it waited with him
as he stood alone at the edge of creation.
We cannot spare the moment to chase it away
that small dark thing interrupting all work.
Sometimes the work of words whispers, calling
against the work of my hands itself singing.
Have a stolen morsel this moment of writing then.
A little tip of the hat to a poem which really hit home during the session of sonnets recently held at a local library.
