I find myself staring at a blank page.
Feels impairing, like being in a cage.
Been so long since I wrote words.
Days gone, since creativity spurred.
For an iota of inspiration, I racked my brain.
But it gave no information, as if on a campaign.
Feels like a crime, wasting time.
No motivational dime, during this downtime.
You are hardwired to be productive.
It is not desired, to not be constructive.
The fear wakes me up at night.
When it is dead quiet.
Urging me to fight and just write.
But I've exhausted my idea stockage.
This damned mental blockage.
So I sit and wait for the weather.
That makes words grow like heather.
For that period is fleeting.
Always retreating.
Guess I'll never know.
Why I can't summon the flow.
So I am thankful when the words start to come.
I get tranquil, another person I become.
Feels like receiving a present.
Works like an antidepressant.
When I get the word rush.
I can't help but gush.
Even if the proposition is not superb.
To cure my occlusion, it is the herb.
Doesn't matter if it's weak, or something chic.
A mystique or a critique.
I make use of the technique.
Try to create something unique.
Whatever it is, I run with it.
To design and refine this product of my mind.
After much doubt when I put the work out.
I start to wonder what the next would be about.
Image courtesy: Steve Johnson via Unsplash
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