Spilling the time and ink from my pen.
As the ice melts marking my last drink.
I gather my my mind and really think.
Pulling together strands of words.
That fly off paper, graceful as birds.
Yet the ice still floats inside the cup.
So I'll pour another for me to dry up.
Is it all just to pass the time.
Or am I fueling my rhyming prime.
Can feelings flow more with ease.
And squirm across paper like a disease.
Infecting the reader with my cerebration.
Giving no time for a swift hesitation.
Another drink has met its end.
Mix another for my buzz to extend.
Let the concoction soothe my mind.
For creative whims to unwind.
I feel that I have reached a level.
That I would not like to dishevel.
So I shall chill with this drink for a while.
With this feeling, more poems I'll compile.