I used to always write on rides like these,
Ink in hand,
Open page,
Looking out the window at the wide world,
But the world was not what I saw,

Only the images filling my mind,
I pondered and lost myself in those ideas,
Sometimes music inspired the flow,
Sometimes the hum of the car was enough,

Now the ink is neglected,
The book remains closed,
Today my raging thoughts will not see the white of the page,
They are held prisoner behind dark, shining eyes and a wall of uncertainty,

Maybe I will pick up the pen,
Hoping its feel will remind me how to empty myself,
Perhaps I will open to a new, clean page,
Hoping its emptiness will prompt me to fill it,

Taking my eyes from the window I analyze the white square,
So small,
Yet so daunting,
The pen begins to tap as I struggle,

All I see is its emptiness and I feel empty,
But I am overflowing!
I do not pour out,
Instead I feel as though stretched to contain all that is within,

Concentration seemingly out the window again,
Grey skies heighten my dreary mood,
I brood in my frustration,
I brood in my cage,

Natural as a whim,
Words crash into my mind,
I defy my problem by using it as my inspiration,
The pen moves on the page,

It is filled and complete,
A poem is born.