Of Little Faith

Where are the words I am looking for?
They seem to have run off and left me behind,
like Alice’s rabbit.

Focus.
Find them.

Daises are stars that yearned to be mortal;
stars who wondered for hundreds of years
what it would be like to live without knowing
whether or not they would be alive to see tomorrow.

Daises don’t mind if they die sooner rather than later.
But men grasp for more time, more power.
Daises don’t worry
that the sun won’t come out to shine on them,
or that the rain won’t come to water them.

Consider the daises.
Oh you of little faith. (Matt. 6:28–30)

***

I’m obsessed with a concept,
but I can’t write it in a fresh way.
All my words say to me is:
“Done a million times before.”

Where is the creativity?
The art?
The passion for getting the idea out,
onto a page or into the air.

My mind is a blockage between my soul and this pen.