A blank page always scares me—
I crave to fill the void with words but fail.
My muse has fled, leaving me to ghost
across this desert of a white-bleached sheet.
I test the nib, ensuring it is fine
and dark with heavy ink that will not spill.
I doubt the Bard faced such a hollow quiet;
for him, the words were loyal subjects,
marching in ranks to do his royal bidding.
They surged at will, a rising flood of sound
that never broke or ebbed.
That is the writer’s hunger—to see the lines
surge forth like restless, deep-sea waves
that crash against the shore and never end.
