The sight

Of a blank piece of paper,

The empty white

Just waiting to be filled

Is a thrill.

The potential

For knowledge,

The opportunity

Of fame

Is exhilarating.

Of course, I often

Can't

Think of anything

To write

And then the frustration

Envelops me

And then I have something to write about,

And as my pencil flicks

Across the paper,

A book falls

And my train of thought derails

Killing several people and a passing cow.

And then I'm back at it,

Looking for inspiration

Trying to find something to write about

Other than the endless

Circle.

That's it!

Another subject.

More inspiration.

Will I be able to

Keep

My ideas in my head

To quench

My thirst

For words

And rhythm?

Like a song

Without music,

The words

In an elaborate

Dance

Across my ears

And my mind.

But one of the words gets stuck

Stumbling, faltering,

Like an itch

In the back of my brain.

I'm stopped again

Run out of rail.

I can't keep at this

Forever,

I'll come back later

When I have more ideas,

But I can't move.

The words are

Flitting, slipping

Out of reach.

Need to catch one with a net,

Like the silvery

Minnows

In pool of water.

Got one!

Flipping and squirming

Until I lower

It into the bucket of imagination

That will sustain it,

Keep it alive

To swim around,

Lithe as a sunbeam,

Fueling my arm,

My hand,

My pencil,

And onto the paper

Blossoms

A poem!

Words!

A river

A fountain

A rush

A clamor to be written

To be heard

To be known

To other people

Than the crazy who wrote this poem.