This is not always fun.

Some days the words are right there,
floating in front of my desk
illuminated by sunlight
dancing between the dust...

Then all I have to do is open my palm
and let one or two of them fall,
and the rest follow,
wanting simply to continue their waltz on my page.

But most days,
they are impossible to find.
There is no sun and there is no dancing,
just allot of sweat and tears and
yelling.

And when I drag one out from under my bed,
or steal one from the woman at the bus stop,
they don't typically sit still very long.
So we fight clumsily, late into the night,
until we both quit out of sheer exhaustion.

Is this the writer's life?
95% of one's days spent wrestling
with the air? With things that don't
yet exist? A tiring hunt for the
perfect way, the perfect phrase, the perfect
story...

If so, I suppose it all seems like the perfect formula for insanity...

But then there are the "some days"
the other 5%,
when words come tripping in so sweetly
through an open window,
allowing glimpses of secrets and distant lands
and deeper thoughts,
that make the madness worth it,
at least for a moment-
A moment long enough to make you forget the week's pains,
and renew your monthly contract.