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Paper And Pen. Paper and a pen that is poised to write, The time, it is in the middle of the night. Inspiration flows down to my hand, Perhaps a discharge from my pituitary gland. Pictures flow through to my brain, I discard them again, and again. Something special, I sit and wait, It is slow in coming and it is getting late. On the horizon a shadow vague, Perhaps I should write about the plague. But no that has been done before, After all I do not want to be a bore. Shall I write about perpetual love? Or about the Angels high up above? I could write about impetuous youth, Not now I'm afraid, I am too old in the tooth. I have written before about spring flowers, The way that I have spent many happy hours. Perhaps I should just put my pen away, And hope to write another day. © Bernard Shaw [log in to unmask] http://members.chello.at/bernard.shaw/poetry.html http://www.postpoems.com/members/bern/