Why is it
That inspiration hits
at all the wrong times?

Wandering the woods,
no pen in sight,
and suddenly the greatest idea dawns on me.
Distracts from the nature and beauty around
as I repeat it again and again
in the hopes that it will be etched into my mind.

I rush to the place
where I can write it all down
where it can be remembered forever
But when I arrive
It is gone without a trace.

At night, when all is dark,
when silence is the key to survival,
it slinks into bedrooms
and curls up in tired minds.

Keeps me awake for hours,
only to disappear at the first sign of light
leaving me alone again.

And yet, I'll stare at a paper
For days, years, decades
And ideas evade me.
My mind is blank
as the sheet in front of me.

And nothing comes to mind.