“On Writing”

The page beckons my wit as it sits, void of life,

a barren landscape of silence.

A word comes, two,

then a dozen, tumbling from my imagination.  Where

does it come from? 

The very air seems to move my pen of its own accord; 

my presence an afterthought.

Blank lines plead for words to cherish and

flaunt.  Is my imagination a

fount of expression

or a dry cistern;

my mind crammed

with so much, it rings hollow

of originality’s Fire.

The airy muses whisper into my inner ear;

Keep writing, We’ll provide the words.

My heart skips as my hand complies, happy to be present

at my poem’s Genesis.

Where does creation begin and when does it end?

Perhaps one should end at the beginning—

Let me tell you how I write

An original composition by David Smith.