the writer

The writer sits, staring

Trance-inducing glow

Illuminating

Frustration no one sees

Fingers perched on home keys

At the ready
Waiting

For the spark of inspiration

The writer sits, sighing

Each louder than the prior
Echoing

Unfulfillment no one hears

Fingers amble over keys

As a Ouija board
Hoping
For a bit of magic

(Or at least, coherence)

The writer sits, yearning

In that way only writers know
Suffering
From this malady some call art

Perhaps if he had a slant-top desk

And an old feather quill pen

Would he find himself compelled

By those ghosts of the past

To write
But a few perfect lines
A verse, a stanza
Something
Anything
To make someone
Feel

The writer sits
Staring...