I wanted to write you all beautiful poetry today. I struggled with a villanelle and I played around with a pantoum, but nothing worked.
And then life happened and all I wanted to do was lie sleepless in my bed, waiting for a word. Divine revelation remains elusive in these days. Between the toddler’s screaming fits, and my son turning the television volume up as loud as it can go, I can barely hear myself think, let alone the still small voice.
I think most, if not all, art is divinely inspired. At the moment I am incredibly uninspired and my art is suffering.
I need to set an appointment with the Divine, so the poetry can return to my life.