My eyes are closed.
What words will flow,
who knows?
The pen dances
on the page
where words are free
from their cage.
My eyes are closed.
Imagination runs,
an idea grows.
What once stood still
is an active scene
played out on the pages,
ream by ream.
I’ve not run out of words,
just the means to convey
all the feelings I have
and intentions of good faith.
My pages are filled
and still I’m not done
but what can I do,
when the ink stops to run?
I left the next page blank,
as if someday I’d find
the words to finish a story
that should never have left my mind.
The words that bled into the page
couldn’t capture what I’d hoped
and the blank page that I left
took my ideas and eloped.
Ink can bleed
like you or I;
if it bleeds too long
the words will die.
So always take care
and keep your ink dry.
Some combination of words
written on a blank slate
can move a single being
in an unexpected way.
A writer searches within
for the right words
that are needed for
the message he must convey.
That search can last forever
and that slate could remain blank
for the writer’s greatest fear,
what if he has nothing to say?
Readers can be defined
by what fills their shelves.
They amass a collection
that reveals their true selves.
Writers are harder to peg
as they hide their true self
for the tomes that they create
are on their inner shelf.
Scribble, scratch.
Click, clack.
Crumple, tear.
Delete, undo.
On the go tends to blow.
On the move tends to die.
A well aged time-traveler.
An astronaut in cyber space.
Wait, what does that say?
No, auto correct, I didn’t mean that.
Flip, scroll, mail, send, fold, zip.
A blank page,
A blinking cursor,
Your canvas awaits.
Autumn Siders 