Remember those times (if there ever was)

When you'd just stare off into space

So quiet and alone

Not even the usual ringing-of- ears bothered you

Yeah…. Those times

Where you'd either wander off into random memories

Or fall into a pit of peace, until life slaps you back to reality

But for me, it is a time for writing cultivation

Ideas from continual web-surfing,

Or a book from so long ago comes back to re-entertain you

And sometimes the continual mix of dreams and present form a plot

But once the idea is formed, a story begins

Stringing together fibers-upon-fibers of plot

Continuing until you are satisfied that you have all of it

Full with confidence that you've written a masterpiece

Sometimes so sure that you would publish it

You start writing it down

Revising it for good measure

But each time you correct a word, doubt grabs hold of your mind-set

Sentences seem unsteady, plot seems silly,

And eventually once you edited the whole story

Ready to turn it in


You have enough courage to select the piece

Mere centimeters you inch close to the turn in box

No comical sweat litters your brow, but the anxiety is the same

Your arrow is upon it