He stares at the blank page of his notebook, wondering what he should write about next. As he stares into the blank page, he suddenly gets an idea and opens the curtains of his window to reveal the moon shining brightly at him. He reaches out and grabs at the moonbeams as he wakes up in the same position where he started. Filled with the inspiration of moonbeams and empty pages waiting to be written on, he grabs his pen and starts spindling poetry.

Yesterday I went to sleep
Dreaming of all the things I could write

And now the pen is in my hand.

But why do my thoughts
refuse to budge

From you

Maybe it is too late
Maybe I'm not cut out to be yours
But I can write
and I can feel
and isn't that important?

Is it easy to remember?
Or hard to forget.
Maybe for you, it’s just me
Have I hit the nail yet?

I never know your head anymore
We sync up some times,
But you act blank
And ignore me, say nothing’s wrong
But you don’t speak to me.

I’m annoyed, and honestly hurt,
You don’t want to do things
Just to help her.
I get it you’re tired,
These things are exhausting
But I thought you were passionate
That’s what I’m trusting.

We will get out of this mess,
I can see light in the clearing,
Don’t give up my love,
It’s life, and we’re steering
The best we can in rough waters

My pen wore red, and scathed a struggling stroke
Black became it better, until feeble nib broke

Blue cried abiding stains, after much impatient rigour
Green was inconsolable, and pink was unconsidered

It was led who was left when all else lacked
That was until rouge eraser attacked

Is it a conscious activity of the precarious pen
To cease work as you require it again and again?

Somewhere along the way
the pen fell out of my hand,
and the words got lost in my head.
Creativity still bubbled in my head,
but on paper it all fell short.
Maybe with new adventures that have just passed,
and more adventures planned ahead,
I’ll discover my words once more.
And fill the pages of my book.
The love for writing is never truly gone.

No music but the pen won't stop taking the hand for a dance on the stage

No tides, the halcyon has come to brood but the ink won't stop flowing over the banks

No noise but the empty canvass won't stop shouting at the painter to smear his paints and quit dilly-dallying

sometimes, i leave pages blank
for all the poems i have yet to write
all the words i am still figuring out
how to pen down

I sit thinking a little faster than the speed of penning, thereby having to repeatedly press pause on my thoughts to let the ball of blue catch up with the image / the sound of the phrase in my mind / on my quiet tongue that flows fast down my right arm into my slow fingers and out into the ball point that hits the page with part-satisfied impatience

And in that pause, resisting the urge to edit / to revise / to reform the original thought that is crying out to become embedded in the page / begging to be seen / to be loved and so to sit and to stare back at its origin, safe in the curated space to stay / to settle and perhaps to become part of something bigger / longer / older, something of possibly permanent beauty.

And having gotten over that feint-ruled line, my first thoughts face the risk of being transposed / transformed by typing thumbs before becoming something that will last on a plain white screen and later be posted at the speed of competing broad bands into a world wide cloud of words.

Later, having hovered / waited, my wet words just might find a place to soak / to stain / to marinate and later be memorised perchance recitied at a more appropriate speed within a crowd of like-minded minds and perhaps for a phrase to lodge / to be recalled / to form part of something that fate redirects through a ball of blue, back out into the flow.

Writing for me
is a process in invention;
the development of ideas

I like to wander around in it
then finally stumble into it,
as I now become my pen

Writing for me…
tangles, shapes,
transforms, and shares

It is magic;
a tool for discoveries
a way to connect with,
act upon, and making meaning of my world.