It weaves itself,
Through the ink in my pen,
I'm just a tool
To put it on paper.
I can't push it
Or prod it.
It will come in time,
The words will form
Slowly and surely.
At times it allows
For my heart to guide it.
But it can be stubborn
Leaving things unfinished
Piles of half written fragments
I try to finish,
But it won't allow
It's stubbornness showing
And blocking my thoughts,
To give them all an end.
I must wait,
And be patient
To let the words come when they please.
What rush I feel
I'm in,
To finish a piece,
To get it sorted out.
Both for my heart and mind.
But it shall to take its own time.
So for now,
I sit,
The fragments half finished
Knowing at any point
The words will come
With no notice.
Pen and paper nearby
I'm ready,
To finish
When the writing so chooses.