There's a certain kind of feeling,

That comes to a writer,

When a blank piece of paper,

Is laid down before them.

A sharpened pencil,

Ready to write,

Joins the paper,

And urges them forward.

The pencil is picked up,

And twirled a bit,

As the writer thinks,

Of how to fill the page.

An idea forms,

A breath is taken,

Then pencil meets paper,

And words begin to be written.

The pencil moves faster,

The printed words turn to scribbles.

A story begins to form,

On the once empty page.

The paper becomes full.

The writer looks up,

Then picks up the page,

To examine the work.

A word is crossed out,

Then replaced with another.

Perhaps a misspelling,

Is carefully revised.

A final rereading,

Then with a nod of acceptance,

The paper is set aside,

No longer blank and write.

The pencil,

Now dull,

Lays unnoticed,

Until later.

The writer moves on,

The feeling has passed.

No longer a blank page,

Is distracting from work.