I sit alone in my room

The blank page impending doom

Nothing have I written

Nothing will I write

'Till the man who is smitten

With my work gives it life

He laughs at my strife

He sighs at my tears

Then comes to life

And soothes all my fears

My work starts to flow

Like a great waterfall

And somehow I know

I'll make sense of it all

My writing's not mine

It's his entirely

I'm sucked into his world

But not eternally

His grasp begins to fade

The writing starts to end

I am thankful for his aid

For it's to me he'll always lend

His gently whispered speech

I alone he'll let know

It's only me he will reach

For he is my very soul