sometimes,
I sit at my desk and take out
a new piece of paper,
with no creases, no wrinkles,
just ready for words.

my pencil is always in reach,
sharpened and ready to
make contact with the paper to form
words
and string those words into
sentences,
and connect those sentences to make
stories.

but there are times when
I have no inspiration,
and I stare at the lined paper,
pencil suspended in mid-air.

my thoughts are jumbled,
churning in my head like a tornado.
leftover emotions,
wisps of nostalgia.
they toy with my mind,
tugging me in different directions.

I never know what to do-
poetry or prose?
first person or third person?
what do I even write about?

I get ideas.
they formulate in my brain
from one of the thoughts,
and they cling to each other
for dear life,
as more thoughts are sewn on.
more pieces of a puzzle,
more factors in the equation

my heart beats faster
as my excitement leaps.
and I bend over my paper,
pouring those thoughts and ideas
onto paper, taking extra care to
connect and loop my letters as I write.

but as more words
are added to the paper,
I realize that this was indeed
a bad idea,
a stupid one that'll go
no where.

scribble scribble scribble,
I tear my paper,
along with the ideas,
and I toss it into
a garbage can,
filled to the rim with
wasted paper, useless ideas,
and irrelevant thoughts.

"I'll just write again tomorrow,
by then I'll have inspiration."

that's what I always tell myself,
as I leave.