Another blank page.
There is something I want to write.
I’m not sure what yet.
I bounce back and forth
Between rehashing the past,
Slapping the present around,
And predicting my future.
I know so little about any of these.
Its all conjecture.
My past should be written already.
And yet new memories surge forth
Daily.
My present is a bitch.
Everything that seems good today
Changes tomorrow.
It exhausts me.
The future is easier to write.
Some days I die.
Some days I save the world.
Some days it’s a combination of both.
I write some things.
I erase some things.
The best poems just come out
Hand over fist
With all the venom
And succor
That imagination can muster.
But at the beginning of any poem,
The blank page
Kicks my ass every time.
i never really get writer's block, but sometimes i'm a little slow to start. i usually only know a line or so at first and then the rest just comes.
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