My vocal chords are not vibrating,
No worthy sound escapes their shaking,
For in the mountains I did find,
That which I wish I'd left behind,
For coughing, wheezing, gunked up hacking,
In-between my cough-drop snacking,
Is all I have to post of now,
It's simply not enough somehow,
Today I'm writing, clacking keys,
My laptop warming both my knees,
I caught up clients, e-mails too,
Phone-calls, messages old and new,
I'm editing my novel's pages,
Hoping to complete in stages,
That which I have not attempted,
A draft that once my voice has mended,
I shall read aloud to hear,
Every part to change and clear,
All the words that issue forth,
Weighted with a worsted worth,
Woven tightly, as a cloth?
Or loose and holey as a moth-
-eaten fabric; needs repair,
Who will read and enter there?
Can I do it? Will I see?
A writer I'm supposed to be?
Is this project fancy-mine,
Something worth the loving time,
Will it be a well-read book?
With the effort that it took?
I won't know until I'm done.
I must finish all this fun.
I have pages, newly written,
They can sting as though I'd bitten,
Into a lime with salted skin,
Dancing through the light within,
My progress slows, will it lift?
Back to quick, and fast and thrift?
Is the story too far-fetched?
Time and space are aptly stretched.
Readers, if you're in the ether,
Shall I post another chapter?
A novel for adults this is,
But also for some teenaged kids,
I don't know what happens next,
Now I must return to text.