It’s funny
This month is supposed to be
National Poetry Month
And I’ve yet to write a poem
Now six days in
You would think
There’d be something in the air
Causing my poet senses to tingle
And the words to appear
But there isn’t
And if I start thinking about it
Too much
It starts to feel forced
And when it feels forced
It sounds forced
Writing happened to me
I didn’t happen to be a writer
It came to me when I didn’t know
It was what I needed
I didn’t search for it
Over the years now
I’ve written many words on some nights
And none on others
I’ve tried to make the words come out
And slept next to an empty page
I like to think that writing poems
Is like helping a stray dog
You see on the side of the road
You’ve got to wait for it to be ready
And come to you
If you move too quick
Or walk towards it before it’s ready
It may bite you
Or it may
Just run away