Hands on paper,
pen poised, prepared.
Read, see what comes--
but nothing awaits me there.

Reread, scrunch up ideas,
like old memories--
long, lost lunacies
of a writer gone mad.

Scanning and pacing,
waking unrested--
drooping down deep
into the blocking of

creativity.

It is like drowning,
Like losing yourself
in a sea of thoughts unimportant
to the awaiting writer to be.