My brain, is frozen tight,
so I must now, write and write.
I have my pen, clasped in hand,
as the words pour forth on demand.
Not thinking of what to write,
just let them go, a pure delight.
A spewing of words of ink to paper,
as my hand is cramping; what a caper.
I can't let go of this Pentel pen,
perhaps the ink will run out again.
Who knows more about this day,
than you the reader, as I say
to you my literary reading friend,
should I write true or just pretend.
I wish I could write as you do (or draw, or paint... or at least have the discipline to put in the effort) I like reading the true and the pretend.