He had done his homework,
read piles of fat books.
He had learnt patience,
and earned degrees.
He knew exactly what needed to be done.
He sat in front of the laptop screen,
fingers poised over the keyboard,
He was sure it would come,
come flowing out in an eloquent flurry.
He waited, his confidence wavering, staring at the screen.
The blinking cursor in the blank Word page
testing the patience he had carefully learnt.
Minutes slowly turned to an hour,
the page however, remained,
a steady dull white.
Of course! It struck him at last,
he needed pen and paper.
Laptop pushed aside,
fresh sheet of paper in front,
he sat armed with a pen.
The minutes still ticked by,
the crisp white sheet lay there,
mocking his impotence.
Forehead beaded with perspiration,
palms damp with sweat,
he sat staring at the lamp illuminated sheet.
He had always been sure,
known right since his childhood,
that he wanted to tell stories.
The room seeming smaller,
the blank sheet of paper
screaming out his incompetence;
he left his seat and pushed open the window.
The breeze cooling his damp skin,
he travelled back;
to the sun soaked afternoons,
when spinning stories was all that he had.
The lonely kid, in an abandoned attic
drawing on the sooty walls;
winning wars against imaginary armies,
the stories, his only companions.
Stray rays of sunshine,
spotting the floor, he had spent his teenage there,
reading books; the stories,
his only escape.
Shards of recollections piercing his heart,
he sat back down,
The white sheets now dripping red,
he smiled. His stories, his only gift.