I’ve not written at all for ages,
The page I see is blank,
Expressionless, waiting. A Gift.
Will the text flow from my brain,
To convey the joy or pain,
Or will it stop dead,
Torment my weary aching head.
For will it flow and scan,
Run quite as I had planned, Or will it simply be.. awkward.
So I sip my drink, as if to pause,
I’m trying not to rhyme,
As one should from time to time,
Now my page is nearly full,
I have not made a single point.
An empty gift is wasted.