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Nothing to Write
empty.
there's nothing to write.
no prose.
no verse.
the pen sits on the table,
the notebook stays closed.
why?
what happened?
eleven months and all thats written,
is about not writting...
pitiful.
i think you used me up.
took my prose and verse,
threw them out the window.
i could be mad
i am mad.
but all that madness,
its exhausting.
so i sit and wait
trying to hide it all;
all the anger,
all the emptiness.
i used to hide in my writing,
but with nothing to write
i have nowhere to hide.
