Creativity eludes me,
Gathered up in the day-to-day minutiae,
I am spent.
Staring stone faced at the screen,
Cursor blinking in frustration,
Awaiting the stroke of genius that never comes.
Millions of ideas,
Swirling in my head like a cyclone,
Yet none coherent enough to put on the page.
I know this happens from time to time,
Call it writer’s block or lack of focus,
Call it what you will this makes it no less painful.
Lying in bed,
Staring at the ceiling,
Fragments of prose flash through my mind.
Exhausted, I close my eyes,
Shutting them out ’til morning,
Hoping to remember a sliver of drowsy brilliance.
Excitedly I do…
But sadly the brilliance seems tarnished,
Hazy and gray,
Unsuitable…or unworthy for print.
Looks like another day of drivel,
Meaningless, irrelevant scribbles,
Fortunately there is always tomorrow.