FINDING IT ALREADY WRITTEN.

The words already exists on the page
Your waging war with;
They’re waiting patiently beneath
Your sheet of paper,
Or pixelated data,

And you just have to pull a strip of reversed white letters
To one side of the line you’re working on,
And there they are,
Already minted,
And printed,
And drying before your eyes,

The most perfect set of letters,
Collected as if
They’d always lived together
Behind the heather
Of your cleverness.

And then below those you find the flap of the next
Piece of preconceived text,
And you flex it,
And tear it,
And there again
Is an errorless sentence.

And on you go until you’ve filled
The horizons with writing,
And then page by page you rage
Until no mental block
Can stop you.