I can feel the golden warmth awakening  my paper.
Everything is so right,
it's a cool spring night,
the city is so alive,
my poetic mind should awaken and come to life,
then why don't I want to write?

Perhaps what makes us put our ink pens to our lined papers,
is when we know,
we must give it love, anger, sadness, assurance, care.

When our minds and bodies are touched,
so tremendously with feeling,
that we must rejoice with our beloved;
as we make it feel what we feel,
inking our thoughts permanently,
scratching the surface until we are content.

But if we only feel neutrality,
it is alright to stare at the white blankly.
We will rejoice another day perhaps,
tomorrow, a month, who knows?
Only time will show.