I am a humbled beggar
pleading with the cosmos
that cool beneath
chaos in my unconscious.

I plead for the need
of words to be
refilled
until hearts observations
are fulfilled.

Let word cut across
the blank pages
that I thought I lost.
Let pure white snow
become polluted
by the words I know.
Let me see ink streaks
stretch across
the blank canvass.

I entreat
the inner lining
of my softly churning
mind
to chime,
let the bells of inspiration
finally find
their home.

But if they do not come today
let me mull over
what I have been
working on
until I find
the buzz of words
slipping in a stream
freeing me
from the fear
that I will
never write again.