The Poet Inside Me

I spend hours
chasing words around in my head,
trying to catch them from behind
while more important things in life
strive to take the forefront. 

When I’m supposed to be working
words decide to dance,
making fractal thoughts
of my attempt at concentration.

In stolen moments,
I catch them by the tail
and place them somewhere safe
but they still won’t give up their hold. 

They demand my full attention
at times when others need it more,
and I try to push them aside 
like unwanted guests.

In truth, 
I’d rather commune with them.

They ride in through the open curtains
on the rays of the evening sun
while I am trying to wash the dishes;
my hands too wet to catch them.

They knock on the window
when I’ve tried to shut them out,
skating on the patterns
created by the frost

And when at last the day is done
and I drag myself to rest,
too tired for playing word games,
they attack me once again.

They taunt me
with less than idle threats,
and by now I’ve learned 
to take them seriously.

If I ignore them now, 
they won’t be back this way again.

And so I chase them between yawns,
catching them like fireflies in a jar
to save on bits of paper 
for later.