like a brand new ink cartridge
you pushed me into your pen
and drew with me
such beautiful lines
and I caressed your pages
you used me up,
but not completely,
my colour was never enough.
you wanted more
and yanked me out
without a glance
discarded me on the floor.
writing poetry in the bath
i balanced my notebook precariously
on the edge of the tub.
the day did not have enough hours -
i do not believe in multi-tasking.
do one job at a time and do it well.
by my own standards,
bath time was not gaining my full attention.
i left my body to soak
and wash itself.
i had been late to everything that day.
late for my morning walk.
late to eat breakfast.
late to turn on the washing machine
and boil the kettle for tea.
inspiration, unfortunately, keeps to his own time.
like an unreliable lover
who is known for cancelling engagements.
you can sit and wait patiently
but he will never arrive as planned.
it's only ever when you're busy
and your mind is occupied elsewhere -
that is when he'll arrive and
frantically ring on your doorbell.
He's here. Drop everything.