Too much thinking.

If there was just one picture left in me, one story I could finish. I have tried to start my last but, can't find the want. If I would just start, the beginning, would end easy, forget about not having more. Just one more would convince me, of a past filled with captured thoughts. How many worlds have I spilled out of myself on canvas? How many thoughts have been laid bare on paper? How many times have I taken from life, absorbed and held deep? What haven't I said that I haven't written, over and over again, unselfishly, weakening of purpose? I find the Dragon these nights angry, most of the time bitter, motionless and shaken, but with few words spoiled and without expression, exhausted, gasping for sleep. Only my thoughts record the stroke of my pen and brush. I'm sorry.