Writing is stumbling through a dimly lit room
Stubbing your toe on furniture
Banging into boxes to rummage through
Groping through drawers
Your hands becoming your eyes . . .
This is ridiculous
Feel along walls as you trip around
Run your hands up and down
Seaching for a light switch
Logic tells you has to be around
Somewhere . . .
But the light switch may be a string
A cord that could hit you in the head
The little silver hasp at the end tickling you
A tiny bell ringing words from your brow
You need to find that light
To write
To help you find
What it is you’re hunting for
Lanning Lee 