blank pages

[Peredhil]

I came here today, after oh so long

I wanted to post, to show I belong.

But the blank white square is staring at me

And all my ideas have put on sneakers to flee.

I really dislike it when I have nothing at all

Nothing to say, nothing I recall.

So I guess I'll just slink away once again

And wonder at my Muse, where she's been.

[Patrick]

The page is no longer blank,

Your words not simply a prank.

Your muse seems to whisper still,

Begging you to pick up your quill.

So, pick up the feather! Dust off the pot!

And hope the ink won't make...too big a blot!

[Mardrax]

Politest of elders, how can you not seethat life's just the greatest reposit'ry

of hopes and ideas, strewn over a canvas?

Spread by a twister, like this girl from Kansas

of whom all you would see were her shoes and her glee.

But a blur, fast and white would turn all else in sight

forevermore speeding, obscured in their flight

to where it might just be blank.

Yet let me be frank,

when her house set down, she went all over town

with monkies that flew after a witch's gown

on the most glorious journey for shoes.

 

So set your house down, politest of birds

and see how your blank pages form their own words.

[Jechum]

But your Muse has inspired others to see

To take take wing into the air

For in moments of doubt and despair

Your friends will be there...

[Tanuchan]

A blank square full of thoughts might be

A canvas ready to make one see

Infinite possibilities, endless games

Painted in white over a blank panel

All one needs is the heart to follow -

Mind's eye painting all blank thoughts.

[WrenWind]

Blank page but a mind full of thoughts

to many to choose too difficult by far

Blank page filling up with odd bits

small snippets appear

soon there will too many words to fit

imagine where they can take us next

[Degorram]

As for me, my thoughts are slow;

aged and weakened, starved and cold,

covered in soot from an age old flame,

now barely burning, lost and lame.

Long has this death been watched with dread.

Years have I stood as my muses fled.

What could I do to call them back?

Where once was a star, my mind is black

and colorless, but not yet killed...

A tiny spark remains there still.

And along comes a wind to kindle the fire,

to burn my thoughts and light my ire.

Oh what a feeling, to write again!

How could I have lost so much back then?

The words are slow, but they gather strength,

and soon I hope to write at length.

What can we do but continue to hope?

Our words will be there when we need them most.

The muses don't leave, they only sleep,

as long as we keep them buried deep

beneath the crush of 'real life's' pain,

until we feed them once again

with comfort from a fellow heart,

with music, stories, song, and art.

We cannot harvest what we do not sow.

And so to you, Polite one, I owe,

a debt of fire, a debt of light,

for returning to me the reason to write.

[Mynx]

Should ever you doubt your influence, Beloved

Just look at the responses your words bring forward