So Few Pages

I love an empty page, pristine and fresh, Creating life, from its sanitized death, Gently depress the pen, unto its silky sheet, Hand rests comfortable, on the surface beneath. Ink tentatively starts to flow, filling in blank space, Blood pressure rises slightly, stepping up the pace, Steady as she goes, the first line appears, Pausing for a second, sensing evolution here. Moving along, poem’s nicely taking shape, Writing looks well, just one little mistake, Don’t get annoyed, easily fixed, right as rain, Concentration’s intact, no need to complain. Getting good vibes, though only halfway down, Paper’s responding, as my scribe resounds, Talking back at me, synchronized together, Losing track of time, moments seem forever. Engrossed with my work, mind starts to roam, Must stay focused, for fear I’ll bemoan, All appears fine, fluency pours from within, Stanza’s won’t stop coming, hope this ones a win. Hard to believe, already on the final verse, Just enough room, to bring it home, I observe, Finishing with a flourish, hitting the punchline, Page seems happy, it’s new home is my rhyme. By David Kavanagh