Day. Month. Year.

Do you ever feel like you’re plucking words from the air?
Like it’s thick with them
You know that they’re there!
So you stick with them

But sometimes the words that you pluck don’t match
So you set them free
Release the catch
Then hours later, standing below a tree
Suddenly the air is full of visible poetry!
You see the match that you missed before
Your mind is full of rhyme and rhythm galore!

Oh, the beauty of those poetic days
Too bad that they’re rare, and they come with a haze
The haze lasts for days
Right after the peak
And out, out, out, those words leak
Little by little, those poems disappear
Until you’re left with one, for that day. Month. Year