Shhh! I'm straining to hear (I admit, this is my greatest fear) thundering, rolling silence boulders loosened parched from a dry spell not able to find the words to tell nor a drop in the hollow well a writers ramblings that freely clutter thoughts, ideas, those clever lines I mutter All taken for granted, perhaps there's just nothing more needing to be said, it never before felt like a chore Comfortable as clockwork, like a heartbeats drum Absent, broken, chaotic ideas now that make me look dumb A river of words, a waterfall of passion, that carries me taken by the current now lost at sea Dry and dammed, a beavers work, also called 'writers block', a place where evil idleness may lurk Reassured by friends and family to not worry it will be back and come in a flurry But they don't hear the voice or comprehend inspiration is not a choice Yet I should confess I am responsible for this lazy mess It's not as though I haven't tried "I wrote a little today," I lied. Sterile white paper mirroring my thoughts, blank stares inky shapes, pixels, sans serif, no one cares Interrupted by any distraction Even the most tedious jobs holds some attraction Mopping, scrubbing, fluffing, dusting Acid in those scribbled notes on torn paper rusting **** in chair with rolling fingertips like the roll of a drum Waiting for that muse, my writing voice to come...