On days like today,

it doesn’t come easy.

The poetry lodges itself

somewhere inside me

and refuses to come out.

There are emotions

strong and deep

but no words

worthy of them.

There are days that the poetry

flows like water from a tap,

like wine from Jesus’s fingertips,

like lies from a politician’s mouth.

Smooth and quick.

There are days

when I write one line

and the next line comes to me

and the next

and the next

in a flash,

all born from a worthy title.

And then there’s today.

All the fear

and the sadness

and the anxiety

and the joy

and the comedy.

And I can’t capture it all

in just a few stanzas.

There are days I can

write a poem at will

from nothing.

And then there are days

when I have poked the darkness too much,

when I have taken my time machine

too far back into the past.

And nothing can describe that.

Poetry is my friend,

my comfort,

my partner,

my lover.

But she doesn’t always come easy.