The Endless Blank Page

A second can feel like a day,

a day like a week,

and week like month;

and then an endless year.

Looking through the blankness of a page.

Trying so hard to see a vision of what will soon be written

Endless ideas, endless possibilities.

Yet so limited by thing already written.

In an age where all has been done, 

striving to be another great in history;

but that history has been and gone,

 and all the great idea with it.

This feeling weighing down,

 making that pen so hard to move.

Like that rusted old door,

 you'd find on your childhood shed.

When inspiration strikes a worry does too

that maybe that idea that came to you 

was also given to someone else too.