The Short Story
Who, what, where, when, why?
The writer sits, there's a story to be written
But the ideas won't come.
The canvas is blank, both page and brain.
The characters hide from the writer. They sit
And languish in the subconscious. Waiting to be freed
To move from mind to sheet. The ink in the pen
Waits to be used to bring life to
People who don't exist. Yet. But will soon.
Maybe the short story should be about a poet struggling to write a poem, now there's a thought.
