Twists and curls of the lead

dance across the paper in my head,

writing where blank lines are dead.
Loops and swirls are grey as day,

or dark as night as the light fades away

as symbols are formed apon this page.
An idea is created by the spark of a flame,

a wondrous tale that cannot be tamed.

And if it is not completed, I surely will be blamed.
Next appears a flash of inspiration

that fills up my mind with positive connotations,

and rushes though time with impatience and frustration.
And when it is finished, my heart will swell

with pride, and joy, and all things that are well,

and to feel all of this is worth going through hell.
Now that it's finished, what do I do?

Now that my story is completely through?

I'll write another one! That's what I'll do.