A Teacup Full of Stories

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.