I hold my pen and wait
silent as the night, peaceful as the dead
breathing easy, barely moving
emptying the garbage from my head
I wait for words to form
pretty little squiggles in a horizontal row
patterns of equal spaces, interspersed uneven black
conveying thoughts of every thing I know
I wait for inspiration
my fingers start to twitch as words take on a shape
shuffling into sentence, changing places, changing words
and looking for an easy rhyming break.
No more waiting
the drip, drip, drip of words is now turning to a trickle
the trickle now expanding to a stream
the stream becomes a spate - a flooding, rushing torrent
and I guide the pen as if I'm in a dream.
At last - it's over
Once more I have possession of the senses left for dead
The artform's now a shape upon the paper, quite inert.
waiting silently - just waiting to be read.
©Rob King 2013