When mind is stripped of every thought,
And there's a blank white space ready to filled up,
Ink and graphite lay ready in hands,
Just cursed inspiration has not shown itself.
Time waits for no man,
But creation waits for luck,
And with luck, hope of talent,
For this might not work out.
That clean void and volume,
Is the birthplace of a thought,
A true something out of nothing,
Itching to be born.
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