Bradbury

I picked it up, sparked it.
Took it to the page like a scorching hot rod
Etching letters into the wood coding the facade.
Prepped up against the eternity of my desk
Clutching a book, squeezed to the edge,
Unable to capture a full breath.
Dull movements with swift mental transactions
And the practice before patience taking the places of droll decodings.
I pick up my water, check, and continue drinking.
The last thing I can recall is distinctly
The thing I dont want to write about...
So I begin to write it, amused by my misused
Ability to pick up the views from one dimensional characters.
Instead I'd like to take action in the reactions among them
And show them they are mice among a lion.
The wood, now scorched, supports a contorted ontake
To the intaking of inspiration from full pages
And converting them into a hybrid,
Yet fully homogenous, mixture of an elixir
I pour onto hollow like naives, turning pages into halos
That aid in hallowing the poor into angels,
That, when spoken to by my written words,
Have read exactly what I heard the moment I sparked the pen,
Sat down, laid the book, pulled out the sheet,
And began to speak.