I feel a tick under my skin
An urge to produce art,
If you can call it that.

I stare at the page and wait
For inspiration to come
And paint it with words.

But everything I try to write
Comes out desperate,
Incoherent, inadequate.

Clutching at smoke,
I can see an image I want to imprint
Hovering just out of reach.

I have no muse to help me
Bring the slippery vision
Into my concentrated focus.

And so I sit here cradling my laptop
As if I could coax
A masterpiece from it.