My brain is painfully empty,

So is this scowling sheet of paper;

The walls of art block trapping me in,

With aid terribly far in the distance.

_Think, think,_ I urge myself,

As I close my eyes is quietude,

Trying to be blessed with a brainstorm,

Yet today’s forecast is unclouded.

When that fails, I move on,

Trying to distract myself,

Maybe tomorrow my thoughts will flow,

_Maybe tomorrow…_

But then, it punctures me,

Like a dagger slicing my flesh deep,

Leaving a gash that bleeds out nothingness,

And allows ideas to infect me instead.

Creativity has reawakened in me,

Its consciousness mighty and beautiful,

And I am now able to unload my head,

The paper now joyous, brimming.