Today, I must write a poem:

What this poem has to say
has yet to come to mind.
Has yet to ignite like a spark
on a cord
making its way
to an explosive source of ideas.

Such an amenity
so unlikely to be found
happening here.

I must again mine for thoughts.
So, along with my pickaxe,
I trek with good memories
to return me safely back
from the deepest recesses of my mind.

I hunt.

For idea. For inspiration,
For I cannot return
empty handed.

I dig. And I dig. And I dig.

It feels like forever,
as if there's nothing left,
as if the mountain of my mind
was tapped dry long ago.

I check every crevice,
every corner, and nook,
now ridden with old
and reused ideas.

And then I find it:

The first flower of spring;
the cloud in clear sky;
the single rock of inspiration;
possibly the last chunk of idea
for years to come
simply sitting there,
lighting up
the dark caverns of my mind,
waiting to take shape.

As I begin to mold
As I begin to sculpt
"It" is no longer an it.
Ideally, it's an idea
that has succumbed to the darkest,
most vile parts of my mind.
Yet, despite,
has been brought out the depths of
being just an idea, withering away;
it has been realized.
It has been successfully plucked
at its time of harvest.

It has become so much more;
this once coal of an idea
has been polished,
and glimmers just as bright
as its diamond-like companions.

So, I return
with yet another triumph,
from braving the dark and cold
labyrinth of my mind
yielding my trophy;
my idea.