An author breathes within the book before
Me, holding forth upon his mistress, Art.
She rides upon his words into my heart,
Inspiring me to try my hand once more.

Expecting muse caress, I feel a door
Slam harshly.  My inadequacies start
To show, as inspirations now depart
And settle with the dust upon the floor.

“It’s not supposed to be that easy, kid,”
The author says.  “We have to face our fears.
The essence of the Art is in the pain,
The struggle to express the feelings hid
Beneath our hearts and in between our ears.
So pick that pencil up and try again.”

— Stace Johnson, 2000