The blank page is scaring me,

it starts staring at me,

begging me for more;

a sexual vixen with an appetite for destruction,

or maybe that was reproduction,

that can't be satisfied with my best efforts.

 

Sometimes art is begging to come out,

but won't throw you a bone for ideas;

such a fickle, untrained mutt,

slobbering and chewing on your intellectual furniture,

leaving holes in your favourite, comfortable, slippers,

and never retrieving your paper in the lawn.

 

The mutt needs training,

where's the hound-master?