Words flow so easily, beautifully, so effortlessly, but not this time. My thoughts can't seem to be finalized through paper and ink - one thing will come out, followed by a few million more, it's a jumbled mess of frustration. It's all so clearly written inside of my head, but it all fades together when I pick up my pen. I keep trying, but nothing comes out right; out goes that page - crumpled up and thrown past the foot of my bed out of sight. The pile grows, as does my frustration, anger, my wanting to write something good - something clear. Stars begin to fade and the sight of morning is growing near, I glance over at my huge pile of failure, or is it so much more than that? Words that clashed, words that wouldn't come out right, so they were smashed. There must be a thousand failing words in that pile - maybe more considering the heighth of the pile - ok - there's a thousand failing words...times ten. Maybe that pile isn't failure. After all, it is the reason why I'm writing these words now. I guess it was just a thousand - times ten - words that didn't work, that accidentally inspired me.
