Write Through The Block
The page stares at me.
Bold. Empty.
Like it knows a secret I forgot to learn.
I tap the keys.
Not to write, just to make noise.
So the silence doesn’t win.
A metaphor flutters by,
half-formed and sad,
but it won’t sit still long enough to matter.
Coffee doesn’t help.
Neither does walking around
looking for clues
to a mystery I made up.
I write a sentence.
Delete it.
Resurrect it.
Change the verb.
Delete the whole thing again
because now it smells like trying too hard.
Maybe I’ll clean the fridge.
Maybe I’ll name shakers.
Maybe I’ll write a poem
about not writing anything at all.
Which, I guess,
is something.