Paper Waits

I want to write. My pen is in my hand.

Pen is in my hand. Paper waits.

The paper is waiting. I have thoughts coming.

I want to say them. I scribble.

In another language, it’s sublime.

Now I seek translation, and a reasonable rhyme.

Working on my writing. Pen is in my hand.

Paper waits.

I have something to say about loneliness, and solitude.

The fine line difference between the two.

I want to write about perspective, and inspiration,

and tools for getting revved up,

giving life to imagination.

I want to write about developing a plot,

the action, and the chase.

Build a story to crescendo, from a quiet place.

There’s a lot to be said, pages and volumes

about the thrill and spill that motivates.

I want to write it all. My pen is in my hand.

Pen is in my hand.

Paper waits.