On Writing

It
Occurs
To
Me
Almost
Every
Day,
That
I Have
Nothing
More
To
Say.
I Think
Of
Turning
Away
From
Words
Everybody
Has
Heard
And
Go
Back
To
Art,
To
Speak
My
Heart.
Paint
Is
Silent
And
Pliable,
Always
Reliable,
Never
Turns
Down
My
Little
Song,
Or
Tells
Me
My
Work
Is
Wrong,
Has
No
Objection
To
My
Style,
No
Rejection,
No
Editor
With
A
Form
Letter
Shooing
Me
Away.
I Go
On
With
My
Little
Shout,
Trying
To
Work
It
Out
In
Prose,
And
Frequently,
Bumping
My
Nose.