Is this all there is to writing?
A sheet of paper,
a typewriter
and words
languishing
to make their presence felt?
What about thoughts that run beserk
every time they are prompted
to put themselves on paper?
What about gushing emotions
that fail to conceive
when the time for birth is due?
The blank page
like life, like desire
descending into an abyss,
an act in itself
to experience
the pleasure of pain and creation.
