The rough strokes of the pen,
On the smooth paper, snow white,
Etching out the words of fire,
On the sea of rolling space,
The thunderstorm of the thinking mind,
The torrent of ideas pouring down,
Before slowing into spare drops,
That slowly trickles through the earth,
The earth, the earth, the prairie of potential,
Dotted with the empty houses of dead ideas,
Only some still live in these houses,
Haunted by the eyes of the living,
Until me move along the smooth worn trail,
Of classes, advice, and help,
To ride the train, the train of thought,
Into the thinking town,
To dock at a station of ideas,
And then go into the school of writing,
To learn fully what is to be,
In a poem, a city building,
Many more dwell here,
Poems of all shapes and sizes,
From the thin, famous fashion designer,
To the fat avid McDonald’s feaster,
Coupled with the suit-wearing worker,
The stout short kids that do run around,
Along with the construction men with their pickaxes of writing,
Plus the shopkeepers and managers,
Until the…brain freeze,
Time stands still for a moment,
Then the people mill faster,
With a new purpose,
Until the sun of progress sets,
To be replaced with the moon of determination,
And I withdraw from the world of poems,
And sit down at my rackety seat,
The pencil sharpener whirls like my excitement,
The rasp of the paper sounds like my voice,
The voice of my writing, coming through,
Through the lyrics of forbidden music beneath my eyes,
So, if you walked in on my house,
You would hear a screaming kid,
See a gardener working with sweaty haste,
And a father with a tie and a phone,
And a little kid alone,
Sitting in his writing corner,
Etching out the lines of fire,
On the smooth white endless paper