The cupboards are empty and money is tight
Said I to my wee pages unfilled
There will be no dinner tonight
And though I try with focus and might
The fields of imagination untilled
The cupboards are empty and money is tight
Inspiration lay no where in sight
My dreams of expression killed
There will be no dinner tonight
My guide, unsympathetic to my plight
My pen, unmoving and stilled
The cupboards are empty and money is tight
And so my wee pages lay pristine and white
My thoughts obstructed, intimidated, unskilled
The cupboard is empty and money is tight
There will be no dinner tonight
The Free-Write
I’ve always had a love for journals. Not empty ones, though. I love the feel of crinkly abused pages; pages that have been written all over front and back with a rough, feverish pen; pages that have been pressed and scribbled on from top to bottom and seem to be able to stand on their own.
A fresh journal with its perfect pages that lay flat against each other entices visions of possibilities: adventures to be had, deep thoughts to be expressed, secrets to be set free.
Yet when I open a beautifully bound journal with its perfect pages, all I see are blank lines in front of me begging to be fed. The vastness of the blank page scares off any inspiration I may have had, and like a poor, destitute mother, I struggle to express to my starving children that there will be no dinner tonight.
