Dang it

Sparrow like, I rustle
through the leaves
of paper,
pecking the letters necessary
for nouns,
to form
into coherent thought
and poetry.

I race to the altar,
chastising the weakness
of commas
and the flailing about of hyphens.
Praying that the muse
of some kinda important god
will deem me worthy,
crowning my mind with the olive branch

(See, there was something thereā€¦
just there..
waiting to be written
or born
or thought.)

Dang it.

Shuffling again
into my old shoes,
kicking up dusty old phrases
and worn out metaphors,
I scatter seed for the birds.