The daylight hours draw to close.
Like clockwork, I’m glued to my stool
opposite my desk.

Desk lamp aglow, pencil in hand,
a blank page laying in solitude on its surface.

The vicious cycle of trial and error that is
my attempt at creative writing begins.
Sprout an idea, write, reflect, and junk it.

Sprout idea, write, reflect, junk.

Idea, write, reflect, junk.

Idea, write, reflect, junk.

OVER and OVER as a bone white mountain
forms at my back.
Reminding me only of the
gridlock infecting attempt after attempt for the past…

while.

A one-two of frustration and exhaustion setting in
sends my sword deskward
and my face into my palm as I rise,
creaking and popping with every upward motion.

The light is killed; desk abandoned in favor of
a familiar bed.

With another blank page, laying in solitude.