Writing

I can draw
on demand.
Anything.
Give me
a stick and a dirt road
wet fingertips on the tabletop
or just a pencil
and napkin
and a bit of light.
My mind stills
as no meditation ever helped it do.

Writing
is so frantic.
My brain wars
against itself
ta dum, ta dum
grasping for words to fit
pages ripped from the thesaurus
lying open in my mind
breaking sentences apart.

It's as if
while drawing
I tried to recite the cardinal points
of my brush
as it moves
and simultaneously
recount the life
of the animal whose hair
is drenched in ink.