my pen feels heavy in the uncertain grasp of
my fingers which cannot find where to begin this time
and even as the ink flows freely, blackened drops and brushed
scratches along the pure white page
I find that nothing is there, and the aching muscles in my hand
have nothing to prove themselves
of their work they so often regard as victory after enduring a wait so long
which takes from them life, at times
but a wait that is rewarding because it was earned in need for completion
and I am left to realize that they might, they must, possess minds of their own
leaving me alone to watch as they work, and
see what can be made of their thoughts and mysterious inspirations, which seem
to flow endlessly, when I am incapable
and left rooted in awe, for their words cannot possibly be my own...

I don’t want to write, now..
perhaps later.