It comes and goes
To its own beats.
It hides then shows
On writers’ sheets.
Frustration climbs
When it doesn’t come
At my chimes
In tune with my drum.
It rises from the soul,
Dreams, passions, and such,
But I cannot control
What I cannot touch.
I accept it despite,
Instead, relish its company,
So even when I don’t write
I just wait patiently.