Thoughtless

A product of thoughtlessness. A moment where all good idea's seem so far away. Where creativity seemed to abandon me.

I'm floating away,

I'm floating afar,

I'm waiting for my 

wish upon a star.

I'm crossing fingers

and waiting for you

to give me a reason

for us to stay true.

I'm sitting with angels

and demons alike.

They're whispering evil

to flare up my psych.

I'm wringing and waiting,

I'm loosing my mind,

I'm watching for something

that's less undefined.

It's just you and me -

this writing and I.

I'm sitting and staring,

now, here on standbye.

I'm biting my pencil,

I'm gripping the pen,

that happens to fail me,

again - now and then.

Thats it, now I have it;

a work to begin!

In boredom I've written

against my chagrin.

I found a fresh answer,

I have a fresh start.

I just have to summon

the strength in my heart.

A writer - I struggle,

to find the right words.

The perfect creation

sends me backwards.

A genius, I'm not.

An amauter? At best.

Some poems quite often

put me to the test.

But, here I am,

and what do I get?

A poem for my trouble.

I think I'm set.

I fumble, I scribble,

I sit back and wait.

Now here it is,

have it now,

my silent work,

that boredom found.