I stare blankly at the page,
The stark white, empty space,
Daring me to do something,
Anything to fill the void.
The page taunts me,
Whispering like a pretend best friend,
Beautiful lies and ugly truths,
Testing me, the ‘writer’
And doubting my ability
To control the page’s insatiable hunger
For poetry or prose (any words, I suppose).
I sit quietly and reflect,
Wondering if inspiration will find me,
If I wait long enough.
Words wither if produced vehemently,
And fail to impress even myself
If delivered with unnecessary vocabulary,
But then I realise:
(Whilst seething inwardly
At my recent lack of literary productivity)
That I am not alone in my thoughts, as
I stare blankly at the page.