What is it that inspires?
That makes words flow like water?
What force drives authors to type, to write, to feel
The words as they come together,
Making a beautiful symphony of a thousand notes?
What makes authors create works of art,
That even Picasso would be proud to call his own?
What is it?

Is it the cool keys on a keyboard,
That stroke their fingers like an old friend?
Or the smell of paper as they cover,
Its lines with swirling calligraphy?
Is it the feeling of a pencil,
Trapped in their fingers?
Or the feeling of ink on their hands?
What is it?

Is it God who inspires authors so dearly?
Are religion teachers right,
When they tell children that everything is his work?
Does he use people to put his words on paper?
Are all of the awards really his?
Do authors not deserve the credit that they take?
Or is it stolen from our creator?
What is it?

Is it a dream of soldiers and gunfire?
Of princesses and their demon princes?
Are the ideas of these books dreamt,
Created by the subconscious mind?
Could vampires and demons have been born,
From the darkest hours at which they wake?
Is a dream really that vivid?
What is it?

Are they real?
Are all of the mythical creatures,
That haunt and kill, protect and vanquish,
Alive and waiting their shining day?
Did they whisper their stories,
To the authors as they sleep?
Or are the writers their own subjects?
What is it?

The mystery of inspiration will always
Be the greatest of questions.
No one can answer it, no matter how hard they try.
It’s too complex for the human mind.
Only the authors, as they fill pages with words,
Will know the secrets to their magical worlds.
They are like magicians, they never reveal their tricks.
What is it? We will never know.