The blank paper stares with spite;

its white lifeless eyes bore into me.

But writers will always write.

 

Sitting rigid and upright,

knees tensed to flee,

the blank paper stares with spite.

 

I have been motionless since first light,

glaring at the whiteness angrily,

but writers will always write.

 

By the time I place black ink on the page it will be night,

to any gods out there I mutter a plea.

The blank paper stares with spite.

 

I am determined to go down with a fight,

the logic in this lunacy I cannot see,

but writers will always write.

 

Day has passed and the page is still white;

I’m ready to scream in madness like a banshee.

The blank paper stares with spite,

but writers will always write.

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.