A Poem About Writing A Poem

No normal hush hush 

There is commotion-

a lot of commotion

Lorry drivers in the frontal lobe 

have their unusual day

They are trucking across words from different dictionaries of wordsmith's ink smudged house

It's to the weavers living near the parietal ends 

who are accepted to receive the

delivery of words- swelled with emotions and sense, indigenous to only these lettered clan 

The weavers play with threads,

they sew the words in fashion colloquial to only Wordsmith's head

Their command on needle is remarkable in the valley

Sound of scissors and words getting cut and chopped and fixed 

Ruckus of phrasal designers 

And tumult of simile and metaphors 

Tailors of alliteration setting in back and forth the sewing machine 

Eying for the design that

would fit well poetically when the Reed would bring down these sounds 

on Paper's raw body

Their imagination spinning a sense of pride 

while their fingers tuning the color scheme

And then, a sudden hunt for a title- a hoax or something real and fresh and hitting less?

Not something to be easily toiled with

It's a brand name honoring efforts of 

thousand lettered men

At a conjunctive tick of clock,

title scratched scrivener's head 

She erased and thought

And wrote it again

Perplexed

Twitched 

Unrest

and reading chime

Pen head's lips tight and anxious mind

And continuous honking, if it fits fine?