Writing

I dip my quill in ink
yet know not what to think
as I stare at my page

I sit with my utensils
impotent before me
no inspiration is forthcoming
though through me flow sorrow, joy, and rage

I play a moment with that last
or does it play with me?
toy with thoughts of angry jealousy
take a sigh
and let them pass

my hand carries quill with its attendant ink
flowing across the paper leaf
and then I realize what I've done
the page is now so much fuller
than when I had begun.