When I write prose
words gush forth
ever-flowing.
Turn the tap
et voilà!
torrents of trivia
waterfalls of words
streams of consciousness.
Poetry comes
(if at all)
from a faulty faucet,
with a leak so slow
no one has bothered
to replace it–
yet.
Drip…
drip…
drip…
blink and you miss it.
A single drop;
useless.
The poet must cup her hands
just so
and catch what comes,
when it comes,
and hope it doesn’t evaporate
into thin air.
April 22, 2012
my prose tap feel like your poetry tap right now…