• Write
    they smile
    practically giggling.
    Write and write and write.
    Write until your hand is past finger cramps,
    until your brain has long since stopped thinking.

    Write.
    Tell us what you know.
    I?
    I know nothing,
    am nothing,
    but these words on a page
    forming the general vagueness of a curve
    hidden in a straight line - who knows the truth?

    Write
    they demand
    grabbing and clutching
    at poetry as if it is priceless pearls
    only to throw it away
    misunderstood
    and deemed unworthy.
    How is this poetry?

    Write
    they wait impatiently,
    collecting dust,
    for you to produce something
    -anything-

    The void. Empty.
    How strange to run out of words.