Clenched hands
Mind void
Trash can
Start over
She finds herself
Mindlessly seeking
Blinded by the illusion
Of creativity
Held back by emptiness
At what point
Is the inspiration going to strike?
The paper is still blank.
“Fine then!”
Shoes tied
Coat on
March out
The cold fall air skirted
On the edge of frigid winter wind
Fiery autumn leaves scattered
Across the concrete path
Soft snowflakes flutter
Down to the white mug
Peppered with powdered chocolate
And it’s her hot cocoa
That the snow is falling in
She lifts the cup to her lips
And warmth floods through
Melting open her frozen thoughts
Maybe the little idea
Can be a small snowball
Rolling down a hill.