I feel it the moment my pencil touches paper,

Hunger to continue on with this,
Blank paper,
Which thankfully no longer threatens me,
But now beckons me for my strokes of the pen.

I feel energy surging,
No,
Flowing through me.
Improvising little by little,
To make this image reality.
Consice reality.

The pen's line of midnight shaded ink,
stretches on,
And as if by command,
Curls, loops, curves,
However I would like it to.

There are often slatters, mishaps,
And flaws on my part in the process.
Ones that irk me,
Things I didn't plan on.
But that is sometimes a good thing.
And it sometimes makes it my own.