Piecemeal

I hate the way blank pages look

when I have everything to say

but don’t know where to begin.

Wednesday afternoon,

and I’ve just woken,

scrounging like field mice

with bird seed

for words that sing

or at least sound nice,

but I’m stuck with the beginning

of these piecemeal images that might

be profound if I give them time.

But sometimes, most times,

it feels like all I have is time

to ponder the lapses in my words

or simple rhymes

that are sporadically

the only reason I write.

But today, I will settle

for mediocrity because

we can never be perfect.