i. Frustration

I wake up in the morning

and have a tingly sensation that I want to write.

It’s been a while since I had gotten

this miraculous feeling.

I can’t believe that it came back.

I run to my table,

open up my writing notebook,

thinking that I might

work on the novel that I started three months ago.

I snatch my fluffy purple pen from my pencil case,

scribble a few lines

on the new sheet of paper,

that doesn’t have anything on it,

except for lines and lines of,

well,

lines.

I glare at the page of blank paper

sitting in front of me,

and placed towards me,

rustling

as the cool wind outside drifts into my open window and hits the page of the paper,

causing it to flap,

tauntingly in front of me.

I feel like the single page of paper’s laughing at me,

laughing at my inability to write.

I shut the notebook with a loud slam,

and give up.

ii. Hesitation

Maybe I was wrong to

judge me too quickly.

That’s what I think as I shove my lunch down my throat.

I quickly clear my dish,

run back up the stairs,

yank open my other notebook,

the one with the soft,

pink cover,

and get my other pen,

the one with flowers decorated on it.

There are different types of materials I use to write,

and these are the materials I use to write a poem.

I rarely write a poem,

I’m more of a novel kind of person.

And yet,

I feel myself being drawn to that specific kind of writing today.

I wonder why,

so I started writing.

I write one line,

“I wake up”

I stare at it,

It’s not good enough.

No one would want to read a boring old poem that says "I wake up"

because everyone else in the world can wake up in the morning or anytime if they slept beforehand.

It’s not only my experience.

I can’t use it.

I crumpled the paper and hesitated if I should write a poem or not.

iii. Realization

It’s already dinnertime and

I don’t have anything written down in my notebook.

I stare at the blank page helplessly.

I feel like I’m drowning in a pile

of words that I can’t choose which to write.

Then it hits me.

I start writing the word that I had originally started with,

I write another line after that,

and another line.

I write nonstop.

I cannot stop.

I don’t feel angry now,

because I know that this was just a long journey.

I know that writing is a journey now.

You don’t just start writing once the paper’s in front of you.

You have to think,

experiment,

and take your time,

coaxing these words out of your head.

The words just start spilling out of me without even the slightest hesitation,

beautiful adjectives,

stunning verbs,

on spot nouns,

and so many more words that I use to get through my day.

I can’t stop the words from coming out of my mind,

delivered to my hands,

passed on to my flower pen.

Then I finally know,

finally,

that night,

I have truly woken up.