Pen Sitting Still

Sometimes my words drift away from me

Like a balloon from a child’s hand

They float from my mind 

My pen can no longer print them

I’m sure Picasso’s brush lay flat on his easel from time to time

No longer

Wanting to paint the world around him

Smear colors on canvas carefully expressing what was before him

I think

For most artists, we see our work as a failure

At least sometimes we do

I don’t know why this is

But it is

So, when this happens

I put it away

For a very long time

Till

I stumble upon it again

Like a parent stubbing their toe on a toy in the night

I see it

It’s like seeing an old friend

The work seems better

The imperfections that once stressed me

Now turn to character

To charm

It’s strange living as an artist

But it’s even stranger when my pen sits still

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling