After writing so long, your mind goes blank.
No clue what to describe.
Then you get very desperate.
As you see,
I'm writing my pain
and complaining about what all poets get.
It's funny how ideas could disappear like a burning fire,
giving off smoke and ash.
You see it somewhat, but can not grasp it.
Ideas could also be like rain.
They come one minute and pour for hours.
Or like a desert, there is never any water exposure.
Also like snow.
They come and if you grab one snowflake
it melts away, but if you wait
you'll see they all come together to make a beautiful sight.