The pen slips from your hand,

And down you lay your head.

It's not coming to you this time,

Not the way it should.

It should be flowing gracefully,

The pen floating across the page.

But instead it's jointed, awkward,

Not at all what it should be.

Why won't it come out right?

You ask aloud in despair.

Then a voice drifts to your ears,

It will, if you try again.

Your head jerks up, you look around.

Who's there, you ask bewilderedly.

I'm inspiration, it says in return,

Now go ahead and try again.

Confused, you almost turn it down,

But then you reach out for your pen.

You stare down at the blank paper;

Perhaps you should try again.

A stroke, and then another one,

Suddenly it works again.

Gleefully, you fill your page,

Then start again afresh.

You fill page after page,

Beautiful flowing strokes.

Until at last, it's done, complete,

And you lay it down in a stack.

Thank you, you whisper quietly,

For telling me to try once more.

To your surprise, and sadness, then,

There is no whisper in return.

With a sigh, you look back down

At your completed work.

It will come back, you think to yourself,

When it's needed once again.