day one hundred ninety-five: i wonder where poetry comes from.

where do these words
molded from nothing inside a mind
spring forth
onto a page
or into a blog
and make so much sense
because i don't remember
actually taking note
of any thoughts or feelings
one moment i'm staring
staring
staring
staring
staring
staring
sighing at an empty screen
or page or napkin or notebook
and the next the screen is covered
in black characters for the reading
the page is blotted with ink
for the feeling
the napkin is stained with poetic thoughts
use it on your mouth and i might lose my mind
and the notebook is filled
with silly words
that come from nowhere
but make plenty of
sense?

day one hundred ninety-two: lost my muse again.

someone please.
hear these.
whispered pleas.
missing muse.
cannot reuse.
yesterday's words.