I've felt much worse, but when I realised
how long I've been staring
at this blank white page
without having my fingers moving,
tapping on alphabets like it does before
when I want them to, I saw a man
who could say nothing but silence, slowly
sinking into the stagnant sea he called his life.
Sometimes by mistakes they deliver it to me
word by word, and I am a grateful servant,
a typewriter made of flesh,
better than a beggar I am right now.
As night crawls deeper the stronger
disappointment is persuading, pulling me
deep into sleep. But the bright canvas
lending its light into the bedroom
keeps on waking me up in the dark,
while whispering, not yet. Not yet.
So to kill the insulting guilt,
how easily I am defeated
by the void that has claimed my mind,
mercilessly swallowing sentences
and drowning uninspired inspirations,
I keep on writing for you, my dear
about how I can't write tonight.
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