pomes of buddy don: Bones of Words

Bones of Words

A writer facing blank paper with pen
Or poised at the monitor and keyboard
Must continue once more to begin
To slake his nagging thirst for small reward.

For even if ten thousand words pour out
And darken all the whiteness of the page
Within a day once more will come the doubt
That he can keep his precious muse engaged.

For never will the urge be satisfied
And never will mere writing be enough
To tell the greater tales that live inside
A mind and heart made of much sterner stuff.

He spends his life in such a thankless grind
Reduced to bones of words he leaves behind.

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