I am here, and I am ready.
My favorite purple pen,
warm, clasped in my right hand.
I’m itching to write,
but the words won’t come.
Why won’t they come?
Sure, when I am occupied,
walking to work, or working
then the ideas roll, flooding my mind,
to the point of annoyance.
What is wrong? I want to ask my muse,
why do you hide when I am home,
when it’s just me and this kitchen table,
surrounded by colorless walls.
Perhaps my suspicions are true,
my muse was never inside at all.
Perhaps my muse awaits me
outside of these walls that lack inspiration.
I leave the door open,
my muse calls to me,
singing the song of a bird.
It reaches in through the screen to touch me.
A cool breeze with the promise of rain.