Stuck

I’m stuck, 

with pen in my hand and nothing to write,

No good thought comes to my head.

Perhaps I’m too weak to break free from this blight,

There’s a fog in my brain with the density of lead.

I sit here and I try to force and to fight,

But the blockages tighten their grip. 

I push and I pull with all of my might,

Yet the knot is too stubborn to slip. 

After huffing and puffing, getting red in the face, 

I finally stop trying to bully this dance

Of melody and rhythm that flows in my place,

This muse that seems all but left up to chance. 

For Calliope may come only when she’s invited,

she’s not interested in being compelled or coerced.

Like everything in life, when pressure’s subsided,

The flow is released and the fog is dispersed. 

As much as I want to possess and control,

I seek patience and remember my place,

At the foot of creation I’m given parole,

Creativity comes only when given the space.