Empty Pages

 

Writer’s block is

like thinking you’ve met a man

you could give your all to

at the stage of his life when his ego is inflated like the dollar

and quality of his commitment is bleaker than

your chances of winning the lottery.

He isn’t a poet.

But

he’s good

with words.

And your page is

empty.

When will you notice

that the smooth talking is

the only consistency besides the disappointment?

Your expectations lower

with each cheap speech

and he makes the same promises

of

poetry.

How long will you wait?

Hopefully, before

the pain,

hopefully, before the features that attracted you

warp like wet paper.

My dry

empty page is staring at me

like I’m "that guy" that begs, pleads

and

demands a chance, requests attention

and proclaims that

he must

have you.

Sometimes a book

has been empty so long that its pages are just hungry enough

to feed on the charismatic

empty words.

His romantic, linguistic

fast food will not

satisfy you.

No, he won’t even take

the time to read what has already been written.

He won’t bother to decode scribbled notes in your margins,

and

like empty calories of drive thru food, the cheap oily words won’t fill you.

He is rushing to have access

but  

fast isn’t good for you.

Fast food is fat, grease

and bad breath.

He promised poetry and truth

but

suddenly, he can’t seem to find any inspiration

or motivation

once you are in his hands.

He claims frustration with himself,

like the

growing anger I feel staring at a blank page.

But

how dare he?

You are the page who was promised,

let down, left hungry and left empty.

And

how dare I?

When it is this empty page’s heart

I’m breaking

and

time i’m wasting.

He begged to have you, hold you

just to put you on a shelf

and

look your way

from time to time.

Admiration is not what you had in mind.

You are art,

and

not just a visual,

not simply a trophy.

Empty pages

are poor decoration.

He split open the book

to scan the words

of your life.

Words you had to

feel,

these words are your scars.

Skin tattooed with everything you have been through.

He skims the print as if

life hasn’t been heavy handed.

As if the ink and words

were wastes and not

the scars of your battle,

the refraction of your light.

He isn’t

a poet.

He isn’t

who you want him to be.

He has nothing to top what is already written.

You are

the art,

you fill your own pages.

 

Writer’s block is

an excuse.