Lead In Tresses
As my pencil hits the page and I’m busy transcribing “The Key,”
I can’t help but daydream about the future with the girl of my fantasy,
I often wonder if she’d be a writer herself, if she’d be interested in this great activity,
If she’d be interested in what I’m writing, my inner thoughts and if she’d be willing to read ‘em,
Do her eyes sparkle when she learns that she may be my next poetic subject?
Would she look over my shoulder as I ponder which utensil, I’d use: Pencil or pen?
Will she be interested in me professing my deepest emotions for her through my poetry,
And if she wrote, what style does she write in, most often?
Is she a free verse kind of a girl who doesn’t like restrictions, or does she enjoy some type of structure?
Does she find the most pleasure in writing haikus, poetry, prose, or stories of fantasy?
Or maybe dark, abstract tales that a need 2 or 3 reads before you uncover it’s true meaning,
When she can’t find the right word, does she have any unique quirks?
Does she tap the pencil against her little chin?
Twirl it around in her slender fingers?
Close her eyes and focus on that little light bulb in her head to turn back on, again,
Or would she be like me, take my shirt and nibble on the collar?
What would be her muse to take her to a place of inspiration?
Would it be a dark place of anger, sadness, and depression?
Would it be one of joy, happiness, and elation?
Is it blue skies, white lights, or golden stars that dance and twinkle within the black?
The wings of an eagle that fly hard and fast?
Or a musical creation of some kind, something to the tune of, “Summers Never Seem To Last,”
Aaah, maybe one day this fantasy will be a reality,
That I’ll have a beautiful girl’s hand to hold,
And maybe she’s interested in the art of prosody like I am,
Perhaps even prefer little lead marks on her fingers,
Or maybe just a tiny little inkling of lead in her tresses