It’s not from friction of my quill,
not from lack of ink or paper,
I have all the syllables but it seems
I cannot stitch them into sense.
It’s not my dearth of cause or purpose,
not deficiency of rage or passion.
I’ve got anger, I’ve got reason, but it seems,
I cannot bleed my angst to fervor.
It’s not because I loath your pretty paintings
not because I cannot stand a smile.
I know the colors of the rainbow, but it seems
I cannot see what’s bright in darkness.
It’s not because I don’t believe
that poems can be prompts for action.
I know how words inspire war, but it seems
I cannot point the path towards the sunlight.