On the days, weeks or months where the eye sees, the ear hears, and the heart feels but everything gets lodged somewhere between your windpipe and your voice box,
escapes like air from a balloon between your fingertips and the paper or the keys,
there is where the real poem begins.

Know this. No poem is wasted.

Everything you fail to write becomes another kind of thing: a relic, a signpost, a way to remember the old skin you are shedding over days.