ometimes he is foiled — his pen runs dry.
His search for others seems to be in vain.
His anger grows — he gives it one more try
and fails: the kind of day that he disdains.

But worse: the days when all the pens are full
and then he finds a nearly empty brain.
The once creative mind acts like a mule.
All efforts to inspire it are in vain.

He prays for days when pen and mind are one —
with simple ease the words begin to flow
across the empty lines and then they run
into the next. He loves to see them go.

You think it strange to be endowed this way?
His needs: a thoughtful mind, a pen, a day.

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