Empty Canvas

The page is blank in front of me,
it stares at me in the face.
I pick up my pen that has been so trusty,
removing it from its special place.
The paper is like a canvas,
my pen being a painter's brush.
My creativity comes to an impasse,
that's what I get when I try to rush.

I seek a muse for inspiration,
to help me get out of my block.
Wanting to continue with my creation,
I sit and stare at the grandfather clock.
As I stare, my mind begins to drift and wonder,
My drink falls over due to ineptability.
I race to clean this terrible blunder,
it is then I discover my flexibility.

I race to paint my inspired picture,
for if not, it will surely fade away.
Adding the text to the rest of the scripture,
molding it to what I want it to say.
The writing is finally perfect,
I have now completed this grammatical feat.
Like a building that is once erect,
my masterpiece is now complete.