It is in the times when you actually think of something to write that nothing comes
And you're stuck listening to the rain falling outside and on the roof
Trying to decipher what it wants to say, you hold out your palms
Inviting the cold smooth droplets of water into your senses.
Or perhaps you create a story about the smell of orange peelings caught in your fingers
Or maybe compose a song about your neighbor's dog,
But still everything is the same as the previous day
Except for the chili beef noodles and a cup of hot coffee you had this morning
Nothing changed, except the urge and want to write something.