Unblemished Paper
Vowels stir in the back of your mind,
yet consonants can't form a foundation.
And the page taunts with its virgin white,
changing doldrums into frustration.
Ideas trip over each other,
trying hard to realign anew.
But, sparks of inspiration get doused,
despite efforts to salvage a few.
Your patient pen's poised above the page,
wit dangling tauntingly from its tip.
And as blood and ink drip and mingle
you find that you've bitten your lip.
You feel your muse has abandoned you,
for thoughts vanish like wisps of vapor.
And all that you can do is sit there,
staring at the unblemished paper.
(Quatrain)
3/23/2015
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015
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