So often I stare at a blank page,
Waiting for the words to paint the pictures,
To voice the myriad of thoughts
Swimming in my head.
The muse retreats and hides,
The page stays white,
The thoughts refuse to order themselves,
They brawl in their own barroom fight.
(The middle child whacks the youngest on the head. She screams. The oldest asks a question, asks it again. And again. The baby still screams. The middle child thinks screaming is fun, so he joins in. The oldest hates not being heard, so she screams too. The house and my eardrums ring with screaming vibrations.)
The white page winks wickedly at me,
I sigh and promise
Tomorrow, we'll add the words.