I long to fill you with words, but the words refuse to appear.
I am full of stories: life and death, action and adventure, drama and comedy.
Inside are stories of love and hate. Stories of joy and despair.
There is not a lack of content, but you tell me I have nothing to say.
I refuse to believe your lies.
Yet you drain me.
I attempt to fill myself up until my cup overflows.
I pick up books. I look at pictures. I listen to music.
The words, images, and musical notes resonate and form shapes as thoughts swirl within.
The blender is full and the lid is nowhere to be found.
Time to push the start button.
Creativity flows over and it is messy, because life is messy.
The pen allows me to clean up the spillage.
Words are layered and weaved into the textural landscape from dawn to dusk.
The page is filled.
The job is done.
Until another blank page is found.
Does the blank page hypnotize or paralyze you? What do you do to overcome that?