Before I write

A poem about the dark side of the creative mind’s eye.

I sit staring

pen poised in hand

above paper

But you would never know

looking at me

from the outside in

whether I am 

sailing in seas of 

heavenly inspirations or

whether I am

caught in 

the waves of despair

at the mercy 

of my mind’s cruelty

insisting so convincingly

that I have nothing to say

Today is the latter.

With effort, I pull myself

from dangerous waters

back to the room,

the hum of the heater,

stepping out of the

danger of my churning mind - 

the white page appears again

the thoughts begin to recede

and I begin to write

With no one the wiser

no trace of 

the hell I’ve been to and

back in my comfy chair

before I write.