Driven

Almost at the end of my pad. Does this mean I should be glad? A page or two remains blank and pristine, Waiting for the next crazy dream. Sometimes a picture will appear, Then a poem I will hear. At times a poem will start, Must have a pencil, Or the thought will out. Pieces of art drive me mad, Sitting in my mind like an unfinished rhyme. Art is a repetitive piece, Finding a way into my sleep. Best to do both, Until they are through, For more have lines in my brain to do!