Oh paper, pristine and new-calling to me with a lover's trill
Each line waiting, inviting me to sully your pages with my ink
What words do I have to honor you with?
None today, none today

My pen, light in weight but heavy in mind-clearly wants to be used
Willing me to use its ink, strangle its pointed neck with raw ideas
Where is my creativity, to prove the tilt of its quill?
Far away, far away

A simple task, pen to paper-lending flow to my eager writer's hand
Seduction in a letter's curve, its power so often underestimated
Is there greatness here, waiting to be thrown into the light?
Perhaps not, perhaps not

And yet, my grip is firm about my pen-faith is the smallest of steps
My hand, steady over this paper-a patiently waiting vessel
Am I a writer without a song?
Not me, not me