The Dreaded Blank Page

It's funny how our brain responds
To all our idle moments when
The matter of it all, called grey,
Becomes a mass reposed. And then,
We strive for all creative thoughts
To relegate onto our page
Where void and vacantness wins out,
No longer yellowing with age.
Technology, perhaps the cause,
To numb the senses and make dull
The nether-regions of discourse
We use to conjure up delights.
Oh, revelry! We miss the days
Of wandering out to shores unknown,
Imagining the wondrous worlds

Of paintings with our words self-grown.     

And now I've got this cadence started,
Wanting to escape the walls
Of reason, and quite discontent
With idleness and time ill-spent.
My mind is whirling, twirling, thrilling,
Fabricating joys and charms,
Listening to my inner pleasures
Spinning my linguistic treasures.
Idleness! It lends its way
To wondrous worlds in the human mind.
It captivates the weaving, forming
Pictures; overwhelming storming
To the former blanket of white
Where now my artifice you'll find.