About writers

I had a thought
That spilled out once
On to rough, black paper;
It sploshed and blotched
In dim-bulb light
From a skip to a caper

It was a purple idea
A pretty hue of grape
Not to mention, it was fluid
And not so sticky as a tape

But even though it was watery
And the black parchment it stained
It stuck on sort of enduringly
The way mud does after it’s rained

I couldn’t make much of it
With its tinges of blue and red
I suppose one can’t make much of an idea
Once it’s spilled out of one’s head

Then came a time when the flurry
Of purple rivulets didn’t stop
And there was this purple puddle
That the black paper was used to mop

That was that of the puddle
Nothing much to say
That was that of the idea
That the black paper was used to wipe away

Sometimes I think the notions
About wordsmiths is just hype
All do they do is spill liquids
And then just swab and wipe