Writing
I have read all the books
And rehearsed every thought,
But still I am not ready.
I have meditated for hours
Weighing each angle and view,
But still I freeze in my chair.
I have done it hundreds of times before,
Surely I can muster the muse again,
But what if I can’t?
I have bore a hole in the floor
From my incessant foot tapping,
But still I cannot face a page.
The page is vast and blank,
Like opportunity stretching before me,
But still I am paralyzed.
I stretch out my hand and will it to move,
Like wrestling with a wave,
But finally I can breathe.
This is where pen hits paper,
This is where ink finds a home,
This is where my blood is poured.
~Evan James~
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