Words jump out at me in a barrage of characters, black and bold, but jumbled together like puzzle pieces in a faded box waiting to be arranged. The problem is I’m not good at puzzles, and the words fall from my mind in an avalanche of too much of something, nothing that I can quite pinpoint or that I can decipher under the weight of them either. I surface from beneath the pressure of having to carefully put the words together so they don’t overwhelm me with regret and disappointment, images forming in my mind of what I want to say though the message is still brimming under the surface. I let them fall from my lips and onto the blank page, scattering them like dried bones and hoping to see the future in them, or at the very least, the beginning of my poem. They are spread upon the page like an open canvas waiting for the painter to pour paint on it, but I’m not a good painter either, so I force them into disjointed phrases and lines that resemble more a Frankensteinian smorgasbord than a well organized stanza, and much less a poem. But the process has begun and more words overrun the page like ants upon sweets, where I master the art of cutting and pasting, finally seeing a harmony that hadn’t been there before. The words now make sense, no longer jumping at me, but falling into place with such rapidity I can hardly keep up, and when I write the last line, when the period completes the volley of pent-up words, it is then that I sit back and admire my obeisance to the real Muse of my desire, my own words.