He told me to write, but my pen refused to open up its usually verbose mouth and release the inked sounds within. Stifled by emotions blockade, fear choked the encouragement from what normally is a God given moment of inspiration. Yes, situation’s momentous occasion passed casually in front my soul’s window, stopping to greedily rob me of the steaming hot apple pie on my window-sill. ‘Punk ass…’ I resentfully mutter, as situation’s untimely occasion licked poetry off its sticky fingers, insensitive to my well earned hunger pains. But such is life right? Ya snooze, ya lose! …decisively missing out on the chance to take feelings floured, rolled, baked up inside and write it into a thought filled apple pie. But damn!...that emotional escape, which in itself escapes with time’s timely demise, leaving you with nothing but salivating eyes and a reflection of you eating your own humble pie. ‘Wanna piece?’ I hear situation’s occasion reply to what I thought was my own retort so sly. Clearly, he saw me gulp down the humble slice as I enviously watched steam rise from the daily made apple pies that adorned the window sills of others like a starred prize. But I, nose high, said ‘No thank you’ in reply. ‘I’d rather bake another, than share in what you stole’…cocked up pride refusing to fold. Hunger pain wasting that poetic ingredient in a rush to show Mr. Situation, middle name Occasion, that my bakery is expedient and then, rebellious I remembered that I don’t have to be obedient. So with twist in my neck, Mr. Occasion learned that I’m a deviant, as I cussed him something nasty about stealing my inspiration, I let him know that my apple pies will come when they come…See I don’t need window sill adornment for poetic acclamation.