The Wandering Pen

Pen is poised Will the words come? My heart is racing

like a drum

The beating throbs inside my head Aghast, I wonder Is my creativity dead?

Whirling and reeling My mind tugs and twists Just let go No longer resist

Let go of what? I retort madly There’s nothing as frustrating As doing so badly

What to do now? I wonder aloud In stillness I sit Not feeling too proud

But look, I see My poised pen has wandered And written a poem I never pondered