Nothing Ever Happens How You Want It

This is so frustrating.

You're sitting there,

Pencil in hand,

Book in front of you,

Poised and ready.

But nothing happens.

You twirl the pencil around a bit,

Hoping the movement would help.

But nothing happens.

You huff out an irritated breath,

And begin fidgeting,

Literally with anything you can lay your hands on.

Yet, nothing happens.

You stare at the blank page in front of you,

Eyes full of abject concentration,

Almost as if you'd burn the page.

Still, nothing happens.

At this point,

You cry out in frustration,

And look away pointedly.

And nothing happens.

Maybe you're the type,

That flings your book against the wall.

Believe me, nothing happens.

Finally,

You sigh and walk away,

Because, after all,

Nothing happens.

But then, one day,

It will pop into your head.

It will sit there, on your mind,

As an urgent thought,

Threatening to destroy your peace of mind and sanity.

It will bug you for the rest of the day,

And you know it, can feel it,

If you just pull out a book now,

It will happen.

But now, time doesn't happen.

At long last,

When you manage free time,

You sit,

Pencil in hand,

Book in front of you,

Poised and ready.

But by now,

It is too late.

And nothing happens.

Annoying, isn't it?