A Blank Page

My blank page tries to scold me

For not having a blanket of words

To keep it warm on solitary nights

When each frail minute is distorted.

　

The writer I want to be is stuck

In a messy puddle of spilt ink

Waiting for your fingers to feel

The words I’ve already written.

　

My blank page turns translucent

With the residue of the day’s end

Clinging desperately to my side

And twisting its way to my core.

　

If I could just write one melting line

That doesn’t seek my acceptance

I would have nectar to lie beside

Instead of despair that never sleeps.

Reviews

[ThereseAline]

I dug that. Creatively put.