How quickly things can get away,
how often thoughts just disappear,
despite the ink or time one takes
to liter'lize what's between the ears
it all goes swiftly from our clutch,
our brains move faster than our hands,
and we all want to say so much,
but brains can't make hands understand.
But when brains can manipulate
the fingers over pen and page
the words that come rely on fate,
and pray that beer will not upstage,
for nothing is as humbling
as writing that has been drowning.
...
(k)
Iambic octameter. Dropping the syllables makes it sound so much more modern than the ole' pentameter. this poem rolls off the tongue like smoke.
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