I am pleased to share three poem pieces.
I have no valid excuse not to write -- if I can't write my novel then I will write poems. I have every good writing app installed everywhere and I always have my journal and pen case. There is no excuse. My old typewriter is ready and waiting, willing to work even by candlelight. There is no excuse.
Lately I write in bed, after I wake up, my first action is to write something, with my hands and my head still dewy with dreams. When I am about to fall into a nap in the afternoon I carry my tablet, open to a blank page, ready to write a few lines while I settle my tired body into bed, before I slide completely into sleep.
I write my journal -- by pen or by keyboard. There is no excuse. I have more than enough paper, notebooks, nibs, inks, pens in all shades and shimmer. There is no excuse.
There is always time. I know it because I have done it before, claiming time in moody bursts and deadly determination. All I need to do now, really, is to be constant. To be true. To be committed.
Everything builds up, gathers, forms patterns, makes a whole. Then the whole evolves, transforms, transcends.
There is no excuse, especially if I say that I want it so badly.