Driven
Almost at the end of my pad.
Does this mean I should be glad?
A page or two remains blank and pristine,
Waiting for the next crazy dream.
Sometimes a picture will appear,
Then a poem I will hear.
At times a poem will start,
Must have a pencil,
Or the thought will out.
Pieces of art drive me mad,
Sitting in my mind like an unfinished rhyme.
Art is a repetitive piece,
Finding a way into my sleep.
Best to do both,
Until they are through,
For more have lines in my brain to do!
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