I could write thousands of poems,
and never pin that down,
even though it never moves or changes.

Every poem I try,
is so close,
but maybe not as close,
as the one before,
but who ever knows.

Abstracts;
always fluid,
never solid.

It escapes the pen,
but not the imagination,
whether it’s success,
love,
happiness,
hatred,
victory,
or defeat.

It is always on the tip of the mind,
and yet, never on the tip of one’s pen.

It isn’t enough to make the reader feel it,
it must jump from the pages,
and claw away your throat,
or I have failed you.

Failure is the feeling one achieves,
when they feel they’ve finally captured,
something worth yelling from the mountains,
only to realize it isn’t quite there at all.

The cycle continues,
poem by poem,
song by song,
and life by life.