The Pawn

I sit down softly in my wooden chair,
off into the blank nothingness, I begin to stare.
In my dripping wet fingers, I hold my little book,
do I keep it closed or take a chance and look.

I decide to open it to an empty page,
now the whole world is my stage.
I give over control to my creative mind,
to my surprise there are endless words for me to find.

Some words are big and some are very small,
on the paper the ink from my pen begins to crawl.
Line by line it forever flows,
where it is headed nobody truly knows.

The ink knows what to do,
most of the time it bleeds blue.
I just let it do what it will,
sooner or later the page does fill.

I let the ink drip out like bullets from a gun,
the next thing you know, the writing is done.
I slowly put my book back on the shelf once more,
to my imagination, I again slam the door.

Of my own mind, I am simply just a pawn,
I am forever awaiting the oncoming dawn.