April 8, 2022

THE CURSOR

At my desk I sit, unthinking

Staring at the cursor blinking

Like a rival slyly winking

On the page that I must fill.

Then I start to write a sentence,

A beckoning commencement

For dear readers who are entrants

To this world brought forth by will,

Yet my words are un-inspired

Also wracked with tropes so tired

And in old clichés they’re mired

So this first line I must kill.

Thus I’m back to where I started

Feeling mostly broken-hearted

Over thoughts that I have martyred

So my novels might show skill.

And I’m standing in the first square

While the bleeping cursor blinks there

Offering it’s double-dog-dare:

“Bet this page you cannot fill!”

Once again I set to typing,

Sweat from brow I’m often wiping

As I’m muttering and griping

Writing barely more than nil.

But then inspiration hits,

At my side, a muse now sits!

Words in neither starts nor fits

Freely from my mind do spill.

I press on to reach the ending,

Each plot beat still needs some tending,

But the time is well worth spending,

Writing gives me such a thrill!

Sadly, muses can be fickle,

And the fount becomes a trickle.

I’m a reaper with no sickle

Chewing on a bitter pill.

Now I dream up every curse or

Ruthless name to call this cursor

Who refuses to traverse more

‘Cross this page that’s empty still.

This empty page that I must fill.