A/N: I wrote this during Study Hall. And it was super noisy, but I'm still very proud of it. Especially considering I had been planning on writing about something else and ended up with this. But seriously, it's good. Like, really good. Just give it a chance. And review and let me know what you think while you're at it? It'd be greatly appreciated. :)

Where is inspiration?

Is it in the blades of grass
That sway so innocently?

Is it in the clear blue sky
That hangs above our heads?

Is it in the cawing of the birds
That fly South for the Winter?

What is inspiration?

Is it the blank sheet of paper
That sits and waits patiently
For our words to adorn its lines?

Is it the pen or pencil,
That stands erect in our hand,
Ready to mark down our words?

Is it the brain
That hides behind a full head of hair,
Thinking of these words we say everyday?

How do we achieve inspiration?

Is it thrust upon us
When we wake up in the morning?

Do we stumble upon it
When we take a wrong turn?

Does it grow slowly inside us
While we go through our day?

When do we realize inspiration is inside us?

Do we realize it
When we write so much
Each and every day
That it eventually becomes apart of us?

Do we realize it
When we write something
So unique and special
The truth can't be hidden?

Do we realize it
When we lie in bed
Thinking about something we could write
The next morning?

Inspiration is everywhere.

Inspiration is in the grass,
The sky and the birds.

Inspiration is the paper,
The lines and the words.

Inspiration is the tool,
The pen and the pencil.

Inspiration surrounds us,
Every minute of every day.

We just haven't realized it yet.