This is where I sit,

blank page, full pen, empty head.

Ideas don’t flow, like ink from a nib.

They snap off because of stress, fragile pencil lead.

Sigh. Blank page, blanker head!

How am I to get anywhere?

When I hold no thread?

I can’t find one, it’s just not there.

Fuck this! Anger! Colour red! Page tare!

Pen flung across the room!

Extreme discontent! Don’t get in my way! Beware!

I stomp off to find a broom.

Confetti-ed paper, snow on earth coloured floor boards.

This image has struck a cord.

Shit?! Where the hell is that pen?

Scramble. Rush. Paper bits, caught up in my hectic whirlwind.

Where is a bit of paper?

Irritation! Regret! Why did I rip it to bits?!

Pure stupidity, who knew when inspiration would hit?!

No pen! No paper! Mind slip!

Gone is that single, tiny, priceless thread.

I cry out in frustration! Colour: blood red!

It’s lost! I can’t recover it! What the hell is this!

This is where I stand,

blank page ripped,

full pen thrown away,

and a fucking empty head.

How did I get to this?