Willing

I sit at my computer set to type a poem,

my fingers poised with the tips on asdfjkl;

No matter how much I will them,

they cannot create a poem for me.

I reach deep into my mind, yet it

is as blank as a brand new canvas.

I sit and stare, and I ponder what I want to say.

Yet there is nothing ready to flow for me,

no way to coax poetry onto my screen.

Have my poetic reserves run dry?

Or do I need to search deep within my heart

and listen for it’s gentle murmur of a poem?

Do I need to search for a new muse?

Is it a sign to give up this poetic venture?