At the blank pages I
Stare in annoyance to the empty spaces
I shake with the fear that the writings may not please
My pensive nature

My hands, my brain fail to develop good
Ideas that satisfy my heart and soul

I stare at the blank page and wait
For creativity to return
And paint it with words

Hanging in the smog,
I see an image that
I want to paint
Hovering just out of my range
As it slowly fades away, out of my focus

I don’t have enough inspiration to
Bring the fading image
Back into my focus

I strike the keys,
The words appear
But the words don’t seem to strike a bright bulb,
In here

I change the form,
It stays that way
For seconds
Minutes
Hours
And soon, Days

I think long about the
Mystery, as to why
The keys don’t
Unlock the rooms in me

It takes time to find the right words
Combining them to paint
A piece of art
That rests deep inside
A poet’s heart

I am impatient
Restless, Lost of
Words

Eager to find the words I need
I rush it, write to fast
Not thinking about what the artwork
Will turn out to be

I write a bad poem
Stare at it with shock

The impatient poet retires again
Hoping it won’t happen once more
As I rush again, I failed to learn from the past
Poetry needs time I noticed at last.