Blank Pages

Blank pages staring up at me,
Pencils thrown to the side,
Nothing pleasing,
Lacking energy.

Constant bothering,
Pestering expectantly.

I’m tired.
Let the words flow freely,
Let the drawings shape themselves.
Let me sleep and rest.

Constant bothering,
what do you want from me?

I’ll begin when I’m ready,
When the beauty is genuine.
When everything I produce,
I can present proudly.

Constant bothering,
this isn't making either of us happy.

When that times comes,
It will be lovely.
But not until then,
Should there be anything expected of me.
♠ ♠ ♠
lately i haven't been able to write much at all. this is a suckish poem... cuz' it doesn't rhyme.

i have written and written until every ounce of inspiration i have is all but used up. and still i have people on other websites yelling at me over private messages that i need to get my butt in gear and begin writing more. yeah, it does help a good deal, but i refuse to write something that will end up being terrible because they want the story now. i'm not necessarily complaining, but i just want to rest and begin once i'm inspired again.