2/20/2020
I sat down today to write a poem
but all that came out was empty words
I read the greats for examples that shone
but my ink spilled on the page the absurd
nothing made sense yet still I tried
to turn 26 letters into something grand
“just start writing, it’ll come,” they lied
strokes of black run dry and bland
now I'm left with a blank sheet of white
a pen that has long run out of ink
words—elusive—out of sight
swollen eyes that refuse to blink
I glare as if words will magically transcribe
my fingers cramped idle unable to flow
listlessly longing for my muse to arrive
inspiration taken by the undertow
I wander and wonder when will it return
helpless I long and long await
I'd take anything, anything, senseless churn
something to break this motionless state
when I sat down today little was I aware
just what lay ahead of me
a futile attempt to live and let bare
pen to paper, axe to tree