Inspiration

I push the brush along the floor,
Scraping up debris.
Leftover food scraps, fluff and dust,
Small fragments of memory.

Peculiar dreams and story ideas,
Stick to the bristles in my mind.
Dragging them from the depths,
In an attempt to be kind.

Some cling to the corners,
Desperate to stay.
I get down on hands and knees,
Brush them all away.

Delving in the darkness,
I pull them to a pile,
Then settle down with pen in hand,
My ideas to compile.

The gathering of plans and thoughts.
A circular messy cage.
Then out comes the old dustpan,
In the form of a blank page.

The brush works gently.
Particles, Dragging them apart.
Stretching like elastic,
Some would call it art.

The words began to take some form,
A story or maybe a poem.
Getting the details from my head,
And out into the open.

The paper fills with image,
Maybe pain, dread, hope.
It could be all sorts really,
Just helping me to cope.

I'm gathering up the pile,
Tiny bit by bit,
Removing it from the open,
Where I have to deal with it.

Each word is filled with meaning,
With memory or thought.
Dragged out from years of searching,
The way a thinker ought.

My pen comes to a stop.
My thumbs may halt as well.
As the last remaining morsel,
Is scraped up in the shell.

Now gathered in the dustpan,
I open up the bin.
It tips ever so slightly,
And I watch them tumble in.

The paper folds so neatly,
The entry added last,
Tucked away in secret,
Or hoisted on the mast.

And now my mind is empty,
The secrets safe and sound,
Woven through my writing,
From things in life I've found.

I'm free of cluttered moments,
Of dreams and thoughts and fears,
Which have gathered in the spaces,
And gaps over the years.

But as I set my pen down,
Or close down my device,
I feel an ache inside my head,
My actions freeze like ice.

The gaps are starting to fill up,
So I sigh yet again.
I knew that this would happen,
Its a habit I can't mend.

So I wait patiently,
For my brain to drink its fill.
For horrors in the night time,
Of secret thoughts that kill.

And when it reaches maximum,
I start the process yet again,
Brandishing my dustpan,
And my faithful, trusty pen.