And that question arises, every time.
What shall it be today?
Never knowing where to search within his mind,
He sits there and stares at the page,
Without reason,
As to why he has nothing to say.
It kills him to see blank lines,
Lines that should be overflowing with words,
And rhymes.
A pen that sits, killing him slowly,
Staring him down, yelling boldly,
“Pick me up, you fool,
It’s your turn,
This is your dream,
You are at rule.”
Sitting there displeased, he opens his mouth to speak,
Wishing to agree, but he can’t, because
“Pen, I have nothing to write, you see.
It may be my turn,
But my time is near zero,
Just as this is my dream,
Yet I can’t be the hero.”
Before, the paper was covered in ink,
Now, it all disappears within one blink,
White, blank, and lacking poetic fashion,
He sits there, still,
Without motivated passion.
Wishing to write, but not able,
He hovers over the blank page,
Elbows on table,
Thinking intently,
Breathing heavy,
His hands tense,
And his mind spent.
Hoping to adventure upon something crafty,
He grips the roots of his hair saying,
“I have to write,
Before I lose my sanity.”
Blank, not only the paper and lines,
But also his inspiration in mind.
But as those words crept from the corners of his lips,
He picked up his pen,
And what he wrote,
Was this.