How much I knew before I came to write. The blood of poets pulsing through my veins! Yet now my spirit runs away in fright, and verse flows like old men with broken canes.

My notebook stares back at my trembling hands. My fingers twirl my pen and scribble down a line or two that slowly does expand until it bursts and throws clichés around.

Yet still to write at all is more than most, and if it's bad I can always write more. Unlike that broken cane my lines could coast across the room and race over the floor.

Forget the fear and write what I know best: of wanting more while taking what is left.