I sit in front of the empty page and look at it patiently
I know it’s somewhere, but I cannot find it right now.
It is hiding from me, but I wait.
I wait for that spark to come back to me, to light me up.
I want to have it. I need that flame. I have to create.
I want to fill my blank pages entirely with words,
Page after page, line after line.
The rhythm of prose and poetry will guide me,
The inspiration will inspire me
The imagination will give me its gift once more.
But for now, I just sit here staring at the walls and
My coffee in the cup is hot. Just sipping
As the morning classical music is playing on the
Speakers on the wall,
Written by some dead people from a long time ago.
This is my morning. This is the process.
This is how I write, create, and get by.