He waits, and waits, and waits to write.
Blinding blankness does he fight.
Trying hard to form the lines
From jumbled messes in his mind.
It’s here, then there, then gone too fast
Not nearly long enough to last
To travel mind to pen to pad
and now the blankness makes him mad
Far too long he’s had to wait
For clouds to clear his shadowed brain.
Desperate letters start to form
But nothing too outside the norm.
So now it’s lines and scribbles and scratch
A good line here; this one needs a patch.
By now, unknown, the works begun.
Our author, poet, having fun.
The words come easy, relieving stress
Caused by his cumbersome work no less.
Is it not funny how we began
With a pad and a man with a pen in his hand?
And now the page is almost full
From cold and blank, to warm as wool
Satisfaction as he stands
And reads the words formed by his hands.
His job is done, and well at that.
The man is me; my name is Matt.
A Poet’s Qualm 