People seem to have this odd notion,
That all great writers and artists one day just get compelled
To pick up a pen or pencil.
Oh! How are they wrong!
Sometimes you meet someone.
Sometimes you lose someone.
Other times you just hit rock bottom.
But you do not have a choice.
One day you'll wake up with ink covered hands,
Stained from all the words you've yet to write.
Or colourfully painted checks from all the tears,
You have shed during your sleep.
And you want to get them clean,
You need to get them clean.
You spend countless hours feverishly straining over a desk.
Desperately trying to rid you of those tints.
But your filthy hands will never be able to touch a blank page again.