Lost in a waiting room of inspiration to come; addicted to every
piece of word- a narcotic artist. He feels worthless each time his
pen is pointless; point less into the time it takes to come up with
an attractive opening line- does she even spread happily for him
anymore- does he still have the charms to call up a pretty poem?
Brushing her face against his canvas, his hand strokes are slow,
word by word- craving her attention to fall flat on a sheet of lines;
pausing to see that always pleasing shape of letters, curve by curve

“Please don’t curve me my love” he goes- he implores her again,
and again- soothing her with the confidence of it being a two-sided
experience; desperately trying to stimulate that passion between them
back to life, again. Searching for her sweet nectar of words; but like a
beehive, she’s sometimes defensive. So he decorates the scene with
violets, to distract themselves away from the picture of violence

An attempt to spout free the nectar of literary passions, as writing
the perfect poem is gently picking up a flower- attempting to have
its petals open wide. “So spread open my jubilant flower— we’ll
have any astounding story to tell the whole world tomorrow…