A blank sheet sits before my eyes,
And waits as I make my way to its realm,
Before I see the thoughts of eye,
Get over with whelm,
In it lies a library of words,
Words to fill the blank sheet before my eyes,
Although under the dark clouds,
The body-shivering breeze of wind,
An excusable sense of disturbance,
Would be my recompense,
For they fail to come forth,
To bring me the day’s word,
A word that still wonders with the clouds,
Yet, at the same time they fail to fail me,
For I pick them like fruits in the tree,
And get lost in a writing spree,
A blank sheet before my eyes,
Now a signed sheet before eyes,
With a signature of delirious nonsense,
From one who lacks simple sense,
For he saw his writing,
Yet he didn’t know what to write,
But ended up with writing,
That simply felt right.