The paper glares—naked, white.
I nod, I stare, I cannot think,
but it demands I try to write.
I’ll make up an excuse tonight:
my printer has run out of ink.
The paper glares—naked, white.
To prime the pump, make things right,
I think I’m going to need a drink.
The paper says I need to write.
Growing dark. I need more light.
My neck is stiff. I have a kink.
The paper glares—naked, white.
I didn’t bargain for this fight.
I toss the paper at the sink,
where it nags me: Start to write.
Still watching me long into night,
that brazen paper doesn’t blink.
There it glares—naked, white.
All my verse is sounding trite.
Insanity? I’m at the brink.
The paper glares—naked, white,
and demands I try to write.
