The nights that pass clinging to the words the greatest authors would kill savagely to ink.
Slip of pen, if only it was like slip of tongue then at least something virtuoso maybe produced! The link,
the stalemate war that exists between momentum and penmanship.
Such an devastating hindrance this:
Did the masters of literature ever stare such peril in the eye?
If they did, let’s assume they were the Wright brothers would they have achieved the mechanical means to fly?
Would they have lied?
Told their colleagues, rivals, mentors and fans that the ink had not been supplied so they cannot fathom how to apply use of their feathered pens…
Or did Emily Dickinson go outside and slaughter something in lieu of branding it, inspiration?
Did Robert Frost grammatically correct a distinguished figure in hopes of receiving an unprofessional retort that helped him draft “A Considerable Speck.”
Or was he just returning from a rendezvous with writer’s block?
Did Langston Hughes ever feel the other side of the Blues, the Side B side where everything in Harlem twasnt so cool?
Or how about all the superb inglorious speech writers that elevate the notorious politician’s game?
Do they know a thing or two of the dry spell? The ink drought? The ill pen? To be utterly flabbergasted by a fresh slate of writing parchment?
So when the words do live, flourish, breathe and exercise I make way to let them provocatively entertain.