it's like a river when it flows, no dam can hold it during prose,
it carries packs of salmon onto paper, their new home -
and provides the nutrients to feed them.
As the pen to mind link holds, perpetually rapid is the flow;
amassing waterfalls of knowledge at it's cliff.
Over the ledge the knowledge plummets,
what awaits it, no one knows...
But patiently, the paper waits to greet it.
Lest the flow should halt a sudden,
Creativity builds a dam;
the only river known to man that does it.
(Or to woman)
With the river's flow a clotted
the pressure builds behind it;
knowledge swelling without end,
kills the dried up river bed.
...and thus the paper starved of knowledge,
the pen itself begins to weep;
the flow of knowledge interrupted,
only recourse is to sleep.