As a resident caretaker,
I put together words with grace,
But there are days, it’s just a strain,
I pray and take my best gamble.
I put my pen to my paper,
But I stare at the voided space,
Only waiting on my own brain,
Taking its time to unscramble.
At times, I wish to escape her,
But I’m left with a bunch of notes,
Scattered throughout my own doing,
Even when my day becomes night.
So many pieces of paper,
But even more digital quotes,
Trying to get my muse moving,
When my writer’s block grip holds tight.
I try once again, introduce,
Pen to paper, hands to keyboard,
An empty white sheet or white screen,
Stares back, waiting on guidance from me.
When people ask, with no excuse,
I reply, it wasn’t boredom,
Nor where my words stuck in routine,
As I shared, she wouldn’t set me free.
Even with my vast collection,
Notes and quotes often stayed dormant,
She showed she was still in control,
When I felt her hand grip tighter.
My mind got lost in reflection,
Perhaps entering procurement,
While protecting my heart and soul,
From her being my ghostwriter.
Suddenly my familiar itch,
Reached for my favorite blue pen,
Opened my journal to the clip,
Ready to write from leads I know.
When my new thoughts began to twitch,
My words commenced flowing again,
Her hand softened their evil grip,
She knew it was time to let go.
With words whisking on to paper,
Or even to my computer,
Her evil spell she held onto,
Finally, dissolved into air.
I reign as my own curator,
Archiving on my computer,
Anything worth holding onto,
For the joy of my future heir.
