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When I can’t write

I stare at the

white        page

for so long that

the white begins

to grow.  To drool

over its edges

and wet the wooden table

like a tidal wave.

The room drowns

in the whitest white

my cracked glass

of whiskey.  Drowns.

My slender pen.  Drowns.

The legs of my chair

the peeling wallpaper

pebbled carpet

tilting lampshade.

They all scream.

They all drown.

But me.

And I am left

to stare at the

white        page

I have no words

to fill.

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