The Creative Process Poem by Sean McCoy

Sometimes I stare at the blank page
pen dangling lifelessly over it.
The paper has the pall of a corpse.
Frustration and misery surrounds me.

Othertimes I merely touch
pen to paper
and it becomes a photographic plate
capturing a perfect image
of my soul, my emotioin, my innerself,
it's like magic.
The pen moves of it's own volition,
every transient thought floating
through my mind
instantly transforms to prose.
After I've been drained dry,
the pen stops moving.
I have a new creation in front of me.
A beaming, proud father
admiring his new born child.