Here comes the nighttime
A poem
I'm lying here Skin pressed to sheets Feet outstretched To the end of the bed
Eyes wide open A solemn expression A fit of passion Standing on the proverbial edge
The precipice The between now and then The wondering, the waiting Is it over before it even began?
I ask myself again This ceaseless asking A moment's unmasking Who am I if not them?
An original? There are none A contributor? What have I to contribute?
I wake, a burning passion to write No content outpouring I log in and browse Comparing unending
How do I make my work relevant? What work? I feel lost At a loss for words
I recognize that Everyone struggles in some way Verbiage, linguistics, rhymes Rules for the writing world
The words, Just on the end of my tongue Nagging, taunting I'm unable to catch them, so I let them go
Runaway lessons Lessons to learn And grow and prosper To educate others
Scratching at my throat The words don't come out Cylinders firing And never succeeding
When does the vocabulary stick When does the English language's Most niche words flow from me like wine Bitter, unsavory
I grab at straws and pray I win only one What makes a writer? And what makes success? Why was I not blessed with this talent?
Where do I start? The brainstorming? An outline? Pen to paper, and nothing is coming
How do others achieve a sense of endless ideas Am I lacking a skill? This is worrying me still I sit, taking in the work of others
I breathe in, I breathe out, I type on the keys, Their clacking echoing
"How do writers have so many ideas?" The answers? Be observant Be curious
Personal experiences They will paint the canvas in my mind's eye I want to do the work, but why doesn't it come naturally?