It’s hard to write when everything is going great,
melancholy is the lover of creativity,
sadness and tears sniff deep characters,
you will try hard to hide from them,
but they will sort you out as you brood in the dark,
they never refuse your offer, no matter how icky,
they voluntarily roll out on a manuscript,
they scream of desire and devotion,
they broker a oneness with the author,
they capture the invisible thread that hooks the reader.
But what happens when all that comes to mind,
is dancing birds and whispering water falls,
Summer dances and blossoming meadows,
When all you have is a stupid grin on your face that is inexplicable?
Or explainable but putting it into words sort of dilutes it?
when no character shows up at your well advertised table,
laid with all sort of goodies,
and you sit staring at the screen, chewing your pen,
smiling when you know you should be writing.