She sits, fingers tapping, eyes darting,
A desire burning without formation or creation;
She wants to write;
Something beautiful, something heartfelt,
Something that will touch deeply and emotionally
Without coming across as cheesy,
Cliche;
She wants to write something inspiring and insightful,
Something earnest and delightful,
Something thought-provoking, and truthful;
But in these desires she thwarts her own objectives, coming up
With over-complicated and insipid phrases and stall the tongue
And work against her very meaning, a pile of adjectives that give no sense
Of understanding, nothing at all
Compelling, until
She throws down her pen in anguish and thinks that maybe
It wouldn’t matter anyway
If she did not write at all.
And so she sits, waiting for inspiration
Which she did not invite, for perfection
That will never arrive.
