Stop Trying
I've blown on this ink to dry it to the page
scarcely seconds after I've written it.
I want this to be recorded, this fluttering nervous feeling,
my shaking hands,
the way I can feel my heart in my temples,
beating away as if that were its only means of escape.
I want to catalog this feeling, write it down, and put it on paper,
file it away and call upon it when I may need it.
I want to name it, find it again, in someone else's eyes.
I want to use it, live in it, revel in the strength it has lent me.
It's secretive nature, the way I had to just stumble upon it,
without any warning.
A crystal clear raindrop in an other wise blue sky.
With all these cliches comes an impending sense that I may not
be able to regain it- to give it a name, to catalog it, to write quickly enough.
If only it were as easy as all that/
To name it, well I doubt it would come close, but perhaps
some scholar has given it a name,
perhaps some hippie, some beatnik long-haired philosopher
could find the word I am lacking.
Maybe it's freedom, although that seems to be in demand these days.
Maybe it's love, that often written about never quite captured enigma.
Doubtful, but it can't quite be ruled out either
I haven't the words, or phrases to describe
so I am going to stop trying.