Billions of words build up inside me,
Crescendoing to one poetic symphony.
I’ve not the faintest notion what to write.
So many words in the world and none feel right.
Nothing spectacular has taken place,
Save that I’m reminded of God’ grace.
Books line the shelves,
The vacuum hums,
My little brother plays ‘superheros’ and mutters to himself,
Sophie, the labrador, lies at the foot of my bed,
Someone rummages through the drawers,
My pen scratches the paper.
Poetry is supposed to rhyme,
But this time I’ll let the music of home play notes all its own.
They might not understand when I ramble on about poetry and War and Peace,
But they understand the feelings if not the words I speak of.
Perhaps they understand better than I think I do.
Those of us with a pen often forget that life is meant to be lived,
Beyond the confines of a notebook.