My pencil traces the paper
False promises of genius looming in the air
But it will not speak
My paper waits anxiously
To serve it's sole purpose
But my hand does not respond
It spurns that which it used to love
Denies the bright-white surface
The pencil's caress
As the hands
Which used to shine so bright with promise
Fall idly
Pointlessly
Upon that which used to instigate magic
