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.
