The Words Do Not Come

Sometimes words with beauty do not come.

You over-think,
And you lose yourself, you lose the moment.
The falling rain does not revive you as it revives the grass, the trees, the flowers.
They all get new life, but where are you?
Sitting alone with a notebook and pen?
And the words do not come.

Sometimes the passersby will stare, and sometimes they pass by.
You are judging them, with hopes they are not judging you.
And you write in your notebook all the things you do not like about yourself
before they can.

They were never going to say it.
So the words do not come.

Fourteen umbrellas and one dog go swimming by. And over the music you hear
The dog bark, but you do not know how to describe the scene before you.  And the dog keeps barking.
And the umbrellas are upside down and floating.
And the words, still, do not come.

Somehow, the music thumping through the minuscule speakers pumps sound into your ears,
and it is the soundtrack, whole, perfect, and beautiful to your surroundings.  As the swans preen and dive for food,
as the squirrels frolic, your page remains blank,
because the words do not come.

And you depart.

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