A blank piece of paper sits before me.
How will my inspiration manifest?
What images from my mind will I wrest?
Will it be something someone wants to see?
Do I commit pencil to poetry,
Or a landscape drawn from a reverie?
My creative block leads me to detest
A blank piece of paper.
My pencil tip is tapping rhythmically,
In time with my internal symphony.
I plunge into my work a man possessed.
After much effort my thoughts are expressed.
I gaze in awe at what was formerly
A blank piece of paper.
© 2017 Benjamin Goodrich
Vox Humbug 
Well put! I’ve waged that battle many times!
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