An incomplete poem in her head

I am an incomplete poem ... in her thoughts.

The words fall in place sometimes and the idea takes shape, but the incompleteness remains, the uneasiness still remains. She has to create it; She has to see its face ... (an incomplete poem in her head I am), an idea with no words fit enough to express it ... (not yet). She thinks visually sometimes, sometimes she closes her eyes and sees her thoughts, some night she sits by her window, looking at the stars and she feels her thoughts run fingers through her hair, and kiss her all over, like they have developed many hands and lips ...

The solitude gets thicker ...

Creativity can be so cruel ... or so fulfilling; It can be as quenching as waking up in the arms of one you love when it rewards, and it can be as toxic as the thought of your beloved in someone else's arms ... imagination is so heartless some times.

The craving to create ... as strong as of an addict for his drug ... Creativity can be such a cheat ... some days it makes her feel like a fake painting ...

She speaks out a line to herself some times ... and her heartbeats get louder ... she feels intoxicated. Its borders on being orgasmic - this poem ... half in her head and half with a shape she can see. She doesn't know when or where it started ... this idea so foreign to her? Where did the words come from to fill in the couple of lines that exist? These words were never so familiar before, these hard to spell words ... She writes them down, with her fingers ... in the air ...

An incomplete poem in her head ... it steals her sleep and makes her smile in the mornings. And it pains her like an arrow through her heart sometimes.

(Give me shape ... this restlessness, this caged feeling, this scared pigeon, my heart ... perhaps will find its home, its nest. Write me down. An incomplete poem in your head I am ... seduce me ... kiss me, create me ... don't lose me .. .)

an uneven line of seagulls on the sand
going neither in nor out with the tide
paying no attention to lost beachballs
racing their way toward premature death
under the boardwalk

This is the part she doesn't:

dark green thunderclouds chase the whitecaps into shore
but we wait on the hood of his car
fiercely determined to wait it out
two hours before sunset
with nowhere else to go