I wanted to write something of great artistry today,
As all serious writers do,
I’m a serious writer so I must comment on and contest,
Love, life and all in between.

White page looks up at me,
I put pen to paper- to write of… something,
Life maybe, love, injustice and strife,
Or the beauty of nature and the sacredness of life.

But nothing comes,
Pen hits the paper but fails to move,
The page slowly draws the ink into it,
As the point becomes a puddle.

In the puddle I loose myself,
Stare at blackened abyss of my own consciousness,
Upon the snowy white canvas of my artistic endeavours,
I leave a stain of failed artistry.