Grabbing my pencil, I group up,
Waiting to find my thing,
Waiting to get going.

I will do all that I can.
As I race out of the gate,
The ink spills across the paper.

The start is the hardest.
As I try to get out,
Sometimes, I think the gate won’t open.

Slowly, I approach the first paragraph,
Grouped up, not yet unscrambled.
I need to throw it out there.

As the first paragraph passes,
The group begins to flow, dye back.
It is not over yet - a lot remains.

The pressure to get out the word
Overtakes my breath,
Wanting to be complete.

I stumble to the finish,
Not knowing how I placed.
The ink slowly dries, breathlessly.

The ink is low,
The words are breathless,
And the story is number one.