That moment when the inspiration is so thick but the words are so weak. When time won’t give room to whisper a glint of poetry or finger your way through lines made of braille. I want to write, but not anything. So I wait for the calming of thought processes to slow the string of melodies into a post of beauty. Nothing rushed and spilled like left over knowledge and conscientious stupidity. Not the same ole same ole thirst for the vanity of wisdom. No, not anything. Not the mouthing off of regurgitated ignorance. Surely every thought is not worthy of the blank page. The new post is after all too pure for any thought to brush upon it. Though the pull to build on the creativity that found its way inside your space must fulfill itself. I am indeed in the midst of that moment. I desire to write something, but not anything. I want to beautify the whiteness of this page into something stronger than the color of poetry. Something that seeps into your mind and rushes to the center of your soul like the longing of fire to touch wood; a stream of living water waiting to fall for the first cup it sees standing; the longing of lips desperate and trembling for the first kiss it sees wanting. Indeed, maybe I’ll just kiss my way into this post. Give you something of value to take home. Take with you my beloved. And let me give you more than just a penny for my thoughts.