I wish I could stop staring at this blank canvas,

Stop waiting for the words to come crashing out on the page.

I'm growing impatient of the emptiness that's surrounding me,

It's not like I'm incapable, words can come naturally to me.

I can make them take the forms of mountains, rivers or eagles.

So why, as the clock strikes three, does it seem so impossible now?

Surely the walls of my imagination have not buckled under reality?

Maybe today is not a good day for writing, one might assume.

But then why does tomorrow not seem to look good either?

Ah! Maybe it's the inspiration well that has dried up and gone into a drought.

Yet after walks and music I seem so inspired that I race to the white plains,

To find nothing but overwhelming emptiness stare back.

No words, no thoughts and no feelings left for me to see.

I've never felt so completely and utterly helpless in my plight,

It seems everywhere I turn; anyone I encounter has not a thing to say.

They stand and shake their heads or shrug their shoulders,

Its clear there is nothing that can do to aid me in my distress.

They hide their muses from me so that I don't break in two from envy.

They don't realise that being this creatively mute for an artist or a writer,

Is what rips the seams of their heart and leads them spiralling into somewhere dark;

Because when the only path I know is clouded with doubt and conspiracy,

Then it is no wonder that I try to scream and pray to a merciful God,

But it seems that words, no matter how strained, have failed me now,

As all that tumbles out of my mouth is nothing but silence.

My fellow friends can only mourn for me as I have strayed and have become lost.

They can only wait for the time when there is light that comes through the darkness,

And helps guide me to the only sanity I know, which can only ever exist on a piece of paper.