Some people have

Some people have

An uncommon ability

To make light of a task.

They seem to redefine the

Meaning of impossible

In a series of easy stages.

Whatever they intend to reveal

Simply comes to be.

How can it be so easy

To live in total peace

With the pace of development

When in the real world

The creation of simplicity

Is so complex,

It can bamboozle and vex

The cleverest of minds.

And even as it evolves,

Much to your disgrace,

The embarrassment

Written across your face,

It grows to fruition

Much too late.

And by the time you are ready

To react

It is already after the fact,

The moment passed.

When you have turned away,

Or walked right out.

Driving home in the car.

Sitting on the train.

Standing beneath an umbrella

In the rain.

Or later,

In the shower,

You have a revelation,

Bitter sweet, with an

After taste and

Not the least bit of titillation,

I should have said this...not that.

And just like the man

Who thought his wife was a hat

You realise that you

Still take the prize

For being a king-sized prat.

It is more or less the same

With poetry and prose.

Never mind the call

For a stream of

Consciousness,

Nothing is ever written

Without a degree of thought.

No matter how short

The process.

Given the language or context,

Subtext and due diligence,

On balance, some words

Are more

Considered than others.

And given how they might be received,

Carry more weight.

Even when the ink is the same,

And the indent never changes.

On occasions,

The overall impression

Is one of sweet elation

When a new sentence flows,

With such apparent ease

And spontaneity.

An outpouring, of

Steam driven power,

A fighter’s rage,

A roaring cataract,

Tumbling from thought

To page,

With the easy transition

Of a pleasing conversation.

And once this clever deceit

Has been

More or less,

Successfully cracked,

You are, at least, half way to being

A decent writer.

But listen when I say

That whatever you do

Or do not write,

You will be little different

In thought or deed,

From the tongue tied,

Fluttering inside,

It’s too late now...to hide,

Embattled old blighter

You were yesterday.