My fingers itch,
holding the pencil loosely,
doodling pointless circles,
pacing.

I look to the sky,
My eyes dried up,
Like prunes, lying in the sun.
Anxious, I wait.

Imagination, locked behind
closed doors,
booming,
crashing,
thundering for freedom.
I wait on the other side,
Attempting desperately
to release it.

I fumble with the doorknob viciously,
Jamming the key into the lock,
Jarring it one way,
Then the other.

Sputtering, dripping,
thoughts drizzle onto paper.
My hand flows freely,
A torrent of pent up images,
Pictures, stories.


Like raindrops on pavement,
ideas pour down.