A poem cowers inside,

trapped,

maybe unwilling to leave,

scared to expose herself

to judgment,

misunderstanding,

mediocrity.

 

I call her: Come here, onto this page,

or at least I try,

but I don’t even know her name.

 

I stare around the room,

pleading with objects for inspiration,

probing my mind for ideas.

 

Then I remember

she can’t be coerced.

 

I retreat into stillness,

empty my thoughts,

pick up the pen,

trust.

 

And you know what?

That poem opened the door,

all by herself,

strutted down the winding hall of intuition,

and sashayed her way onto this page,

not worried one bit

about judgment,

misunderstanding,

mediocrity.