Tattered pages nailed to a corkboard,

Dripping creativity from their wounds.

A giant chalkboard covered with stray marks

Of plot ideas wiped away.

Walls covered in blackened paintings

Box a tortured soul who always mourns.

He hates himself,

He is a murderer.

Constantly giving birth to fleeting ideas,

He ends up killing them,

Strangling them with writer’s block

And stabbing them with doubt.

Time crawls along and the mound of failed ideas grows,

Aging, molding, rotting, turning to dirt and soil.

Seemingly dead and used,’

It receives no attention.

Scorned by the tortured soul

Who offers no water,

Offers no light,

Offers no help.

What no one knows, however,

Is that out of the mess,

Out of the graveyard

Forms a seed more like a puzzle,

Pieced together with feeble fragments of ideas long gone.

It is unnoticed,

Ignored,

Thriving only on the weak bursts of creativity and insight released in the room.

Tempered by time and experience,

It grows, flourishing in the dark,

Emitting its own light.

Finally, It is noticed.

It is a masterpiece.

The Graveyard of Inspiration has yielded its first fruit.