The Idle Writer

Go on, put pencil to paper Coordinate mouth and mind Leave it not ‘til later Lest this heart ascend In the meantime Remember the bruise That smiled And the laugh that cried Every aching moment compiled Every tear soon to dry How simple it should be To express the soul In tune or ink I should hope it isn’t only me Too suffocated to think Mediocrity poisons the mind And paralyzes the hands Unyielding, this thing called time The ambiguous notion, made by man Despite objection The moments tick by Breath by breath It leaves me Tremors melt in soft sighs The pen is idle Inspiration flees Hands sit less than steady The ceiling holds a blank stare My brain has grown thick and heavy And still, my page is bare