The unexplainable, bubbling sensation,
Of staring at a blank doc searching.
They call it young writer’s frustration
But I call it creativity yearning,
For answers that can’t be found.
The longer I look the harder it gets.
Isn’t it profound,
The more I see the more I forget.
That I’m a writer with skill,
With the pen as my powerful weapon.
Yet I lack the will,
To get the last two lines of this poem done.

Resting, resting in puddle
The grains relaxed
splayed across one another
The sand is peaceful
It is undesturbed
The worlds chaos passing it by
Watching the world as through a glass
its where it belongs
No pretenses - no emotion
Just stillness as the sand melts content in a puddle
as not a participant but an observer
Life passes by

When minds constrict
And inspirations lost,
The canvas blank
And hands seem idle,
Though thoughts seem gone
Do not secede the struggle.
The next gleaming rainbow will form
And the drop of dew that clings to a blade of grass will be born.

I opened a book
A book full of my feelings and emotions
But when I tried to show you
All there was
Were blank pages

.

I keep on turning
and skipping pages,
blank as they may be

Reckless enough to
lose them in the way,
still continuing

Life had given me
another book to
be written upon

And yet here I am:
starting and stopping
on a blank canvas

* *