Today I went to the bank, Smart remarks, drew a blank, Walked away, fuming, Hours late, resuming. Perfect comeback, too late, People aim to manipulate, Provoke a response, Futile, silly nongs!
It all starts out as a blank page, An empty, white canvas that you give life, when you write those typed words, and turn the once blank, new page into your piece of art
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.
