You've finally grasped it.
As you race to your desk to write it,
It floats away, timidly.
You sit in your chair, hands pulling hair, feet stomping floor,
Your candlelit mind burning no more.
You drink a bit more to air out your head.
You crawl back to bed, hoping your words
Won't leave you on "read".
As you breathe a few times to clear out your mind,
Tiny spark. Wake up now!
You've just found your new idea.
You jump up and pace back and forth in your room
To feed it. Expand it. Before it is doomed
To your attention span, stunted.
Yes, you've got it! It is glorious.
It is clever and deep and miraculous.
Thrilled, you sit down,
Ready to record. To perform. To create.
Because you were always
Better at writing than talking,
Better at thinking than doing,
Better at feeling than interpreting...
You seat yourself and begin to compose.
You search fancy words to make art out of prose.
Your expressions are soulful, like marvelous shows.
As you pen the next letter, you channel your woes
Into the last line,
And then break everything.
Oops. I've been caught.
Hi, it's me, your pain,
Come to torment you again.
You must have known inspiration doesn't come from thin air.
So go on, write your verse. At least this you can rehearse.
Like all the scenes you play at night.
Every word that comes out right.
A simple end to every fight.
Every solution to each plight.
Go on then, creator.
Craft your perfection,
The one you failed to build out there:
A slightly better-chosen word,
One or two "I love you more".
You lean back in your chair, dazed at the turn of events.
Like ink, your past is set,
But at least your writing's yours to shape.