Some short poems

I wonder how many scraps of paper
litter literary floors;
it seems like other’s genius
leaks from every pore.

Its too late for this pen scratch
(the noise is not quite right)
but somehow I’m not attached
to getting sleep tonight.

I had a few ideas today,
but as they're wont to do,
they were well on their way
before they could be used

they prefer to float along
to some far flung place;
they come on so strong
to vanish with no trace.

I carry pen and paper
in a good attempt,
but all these words are vapor,
held only in contempt

I swear, somewhere an ocean,
of more impresive size,
is roiling with the motion
of lines I don't despise.

Thanks for reading! Any feedback appreciated.

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