Creativity in its weakest form
Is patience lost and pages torn
Ink spills over like a storm
Whether weather’s fair
 
In sitting poses frozen still
Hand is poised with quivering quill
Staring out the windowsill
Not knowing where to stare
 
Fingers twitch and replay movement
Wondering where all the time went
Pondering on how it was spent
Unmoved from this chair
 
Who’s to know it won’t return
Thoughts that I still can’t discern
Not fuel enough left to burn
And not enough to care
 
Nothing left but air
And that’s not enough to share