So Much To Say

So much to say, though

How…is what eludes my grasp.

Fingers contorted,

My mind drowning in chaos,

The words scream fighting for air.

But alas they choke,

Dying at the hand of a

Tormented poet.

What fate beholds this tortured

Soul. Only God above knows.


~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~


Stuck in a rut, a ditch,

Then again, maybe a canyon.

I yell and my words return

Echo after echo, a ricochet.

Each time I try to find my voice,

It rebounds a fainter rendering of itself.

Reminiscent of a story,

One told ad nauseam until it is no longer heard.

Story after story,

Poem after poem,

Groundhog day.

Where does the voice hide?

How does it break out of it’s own mediocrity?

It calls in hushed tones,

Knocks at the threshold waiting to be let in,

Though somehow I’m too late to answer.

So I wait, peering through the peephole,

For the sound of my voice,

To knock on the door again,

This time I’m ready.


~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

A Block a Day Keeps the Prose Away

Creativity eludes me,

Gathered up in the day-to-day minutiae,

I am spent.

Staring stone faced at the screen,

Cursor blinking in frustration,

Awaiting the stroke of genius that never comes.

Millions of ideas,

Swirling in my head like a cyclone,

Yet none coherent enough to put on the page.

I know this happens from time to time,

Call it writer’s block or lack of focus,

Call it what you will this makes it no less painful.

Lying in bed,

Staring at the ceiling,

Fragments of prose flash through my mind.

Exhausted, I close my eyes,

Shutting them out ’til morning,

Hoping to remember a sliver of drowsy brilliance.

Excitedly I do…

But sadly the brilliance seems tarnished,

Hazy and gray,

Unsuitable…or unworthy for print.

Looks like another day of drivel,

Meaningless, irrelevant scribbles,

Fortunately there is always tomorrow.