The blank page—
Sometimes it beckons like a friend.
Other times it mocks me like a fiend.
It can be a weightless delight.
Or a Sisyphean burden that brings me to my knees.
Sometimes I find my groove
And the words just flow.
Other days I feel dry
Like a mirage instead of a fountain.
Writing is a journey, a revelation, a feast.
Some days it feels like a gift.
Some days I’m sure it’s a disease.
There is just one cure for a writer—
A single way to satisfy the urge.
Even when the words resist the call,
You sit down and do some work.