The hardest part is that first moment
So full of doubt you can hardly keep sane
When the inspirations coursing
And you know that once you start there’s no going back
That single moment, staring at the blank page
Pen in your hand
Brushes the first words
Like a kiss that’s just getting started
The words come too fast then
Pouring through your veins, you hands, your flashing, thin fingers
It’s a whirlwind, this crazy messy relationship with the page
The more you write, the farther you get from that first spark of inspiration
Suddenly, you realize that the words stop coming,
Your finished, and you scan you mess with equal doubt and anticipation
You start to hate it
Reading through words too raw, and too intimate, too melodramatic
It hardly resembles the masterpiece you were sure you had created
Still though, it’s easy to fall in love with again
The next day, once the sun is rising in a new kind of pinkish light
Scribbled words on a crumpled page
Seem bigger than that
Stretching out, like golden sun piercing through the black waters
It’s dancing fingers, fading fading fading
Down to something black and deep and invisible