Here is a poem.
My fingers are tense, tight, taut with agitation
holding the pen like it has fangs to bite my hand
if I loosen my death grip. Digging into the page
for the words that seem hidden under a layer of stone.
I need to find them, scratch them free from me.
When did I become afraid of writing? When
did the blank page transform into the boogeyman
hiding under my pen? Blue lines on white intimidate.
The ink in my veins runs cold in the eye of this pale sheet.
Schrodinger's page, every line, empty and profound
with what is and what isn’t, a single eternity of moments
undefined.
No promises, no goal. Just a poem. Goodnight.
