The Void

Sometimes the word spill does not come
The page is blank and the pen still
The void aches, filled with tantalising edges
Glimpses of the worlds that would be

Sometimes they are un graspable
They are elusive things, ghosts of stories
Yet to be written.

Words tumble through the mind
Until the thought is obliterated
The void fills

Pens shifts, fingers clack
Via a compulsion of their own
First as gibberish until structure is imposed

Flowing sweetly onto the page
Barely aware, there is just the writing
To write, the written and be writing
Consumes all until that last word is down

Posted: Friday, September 28th, 2012 @ 1:54 pm
Categories: Poems.
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