Staring at a blank paper for hours at a time.
I search over and over the spaces of my mind
trying desperately to find the right words to unleash upon the world.
My mind wanders through courtyards, down back alleys – my imagination flies over majestic mountains and moonlit streams.
I am jotting down words and phrases
in an unorganized jumble that is my mind across the page.
Disgusted with frustration for this process that eludes me, I crumple the paper discarding it with the rest in an overflowing basket in the corner;
words, ideas, thoughts once again overtake my mind and
slowly, with great care, out of the jumble I pick a choice few and
jot them down again only to scrap these fakers once again.
Lastly, after my forced wit and imagination have run dry,
after I’ve given up the effort to maintain logic and cadence to written emotions that long to be free, I abandon control,
wrung out and exhausted from the tussle now finally willing
to allow my feelings to gracefully pen themselves
with liquid stealth across my once blank and foreboding page.