I’m all drafts

a poem

Georges Braque, public domain

I’m all drafts,
words aren’t
flowing
together into
one channel
where they might fill
a page.

They get stuck
on trees and flowers,
washed away by streams
of rain on roadways,
and then they are all over
gone, nowhere.

Some words are transported
by moonbeams,
while others
fade under the sunlight
or stop to feel sweet
spring breezes
and never reach me.

Digital files,
sitting on clouds
here and there,
draft after draft,
ideas, half-good,
half-baked,
who can tell?

They’re all unrealized.

My mind is stuck
in multitask mode,
but I can only write
to one file at a time
no matter how many tabs
I keep open.