I cannot write.
I try but dust forms in my mouth.
My fingertips soften
And the keys feel as sandpaper.
I breath in doubt
And out frustration.
The little metal top whirls off the edge.
I am left there
With only the silent company of the screen.
The fly buzzes and thuds
As it beats itself against the glass of the window pane.
My back is now infused with the wood of the chair.
My eyes stare through
The wall
The desk
The truth.
The room stifles
As blankets pulled over my head.
I try to begin.
I cannot write.
