My Stubborn Poem

She stirred.

And then she slept again.

As stubborn as a thought could be.

The hustle and the crowds

Their words and the work

That piles up on the desk

And the coffee and the water

And all the food we eat up

All those hours we talk

All those minutes we hasten

They kill. They all kill. They all kill her.

And she refuses to stir again

Not dead though.

Does it really take late nights to coax her up again?

Or does she really need to be kissed?

Does silencing my mind does? Or does the caffeine?

Alcohol surely cannot help the words forming up in my mind.

I hear all the day's conversations passing through my mind all night

And she sleeps.

Refusing to be awakened.

She stirs. And then she sleeps again.

As stubborn as a poem can be.

Months earlier I'd said that she is Thoughts set loose upon my world.

Hell she is. Is she not?

The sheer stunning beauty of a frank mind. My mind. Any mind.

Not forced. Flowing. Effortlessly existent.

And quite aware. A free fall of words. Layered. Structured.

Lovingly caressed by their very conjurer.

She doesn't need to be led. Just aroused. Just kissed. And loved.

But she refuses to be awake these days. Too much work?

She simply stirs and sleeps, my darling set of thoughts.

As sweetly stubborn as a a poem can be.

Today I spent time those little thoughts inside.

And they believed I'm truly one with myself tonight.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her stir.

Then I talked a long talk with those bits within me.

And they felt the carefree grin, which was ever so natural in its presence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her awaken.

Then I stopped and I truly stopped.

I closed my eyes and thought of nothing.

Perhaps of the laughter and the love and the dreams that I share.

And I felt my ear being nibbled. And more.

My stubborn poem made love to me then.

And I was as happy as a poet could be.

:)