I stare at the blinking cursor,
the unused pen; instruments I'm supposed to play
In order to create words.
Except right now, the only music I'm creating,
is silence.

Ideas they float and drift,
overlapping others, mixing, churning, baking a cake of goodies,
put it in the oven, waiting expectantly,
only realize you didn't add any yeast.

Where has my muse gone?
Slipped away into some other fantasy,
Deserting me for another uninspired amateur, tearing out his hair.
Jealous, I watch as she whispers song into his ear, and he writes down the notes,
while my own page stays blank.

Determined to force out my creative juices, I pick up my pen,
Except I find a drought inside my head; they flow bare,
My hand splutters like a lawnmower,
False starts and angry cross outs stain the page.
Paper airplanes crumbled into pieces, I toss them into the wastebasket,
The pile slowly builds, a mountain mocking me.

Frustrated I retreat from the battle to nurse my wounds,
When suddenly I could hear faint echoes, whisperings of song within my ears,
Capriciously my muse has returned, urging me to try again.
Closing my eyes I pick up my instrument,
the ink running smoothly across the page,
And make music.