By. Nova Macknik-Conde
Photo credit: Catherine M. Wood (1857-1939)
My pen lingers over the page,
Cobalt ink waiting in the depths,
I imagine, and I ponder, and I muse.
But still the thief steals my well of words,
Cheats me of my cascading thoughts,
And takes my waterfalls of compositions.
The vague scent of ink on a fresh sheet of paper,
The articulation of inspiration,
The quiet bliss of the flowing verse.
The thief deprives me of the joy of invention,
The dexterity of novels, poems, and short stories,
And the rushing streams of world building.
So idea-less
That the only method of elusion
Is to pen
The meaningless things that enter my mind,
Or write about my writer’s block alone.