I particularly like this poem, because it frames a truth that many writers may find common.

Broken Pieces

Sleeping in broken pieces,
the rusted wreckage
of an unmade night,
where chunks of verse
break loose
and slide to surface
like bubbles
from the bottom of a spoon

Something meant to be said
and I’ve no idea
by whom
An insistence of words,
treading my dreamy water,
surfacing, rolling over
to clear my mind
only for a troubled moment

Pulling on a robe, I turn on lights,
give up and give in
to scraps made meaningless
by my awakening
A search among head-stones
of tilted metaphor,
knowing there is something
here that is not mine

What brought me wide awake,
pestering a dozen times
lingers, hidden
and forces me to write in circles,
waiting it out,
unable to sleep until
what is not me
finally shows its face

Poetry Collection: Broken Pieces
This poem is included in
Jim Freeman’s
poetry collection
available here in print
or as an e-Book
in your favorite formats.