Arid White Plains

I hear the music in my ears,

(literally, I’m plugged in to Vangelis

on the laptop).

I set the scenes in my mind,

I’ve done everything I need

to unwind.


I’m prepared,

for the task at hand,

which may seem grand

but is just a matter of putting

pen to paper,

to create something,

out of nothing more

than thoughts, feelings, sensations,

memories and lies;

the writer’s raw materials.



(and it’s a big,

elephant in the room

kind of yet),

my pen sits

poised, point to the pad;

practised in the art,

job, business of writing,

it remains motionless

as do I,




that didn’t work,

inspiration uh?


more like perspiration,

and we all know hard work

doesn’t agree with the writer’s sensibilities.


Art is supposed to be easy, isn’t it?

It’s supposed to flow like nectar

from the gods of literature,

pulsing through our veins

on to the page;

pure unadulterated genius spilled across

arid white plains,

the soul laid bare in black ink.


Who wants to put themselves through that torture?

I’d rather have a cup of coffee;

I’ll be back later…


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