white walls,
solid empty,
begging to be a canvas.
silent,
ominous,
echoing and reverberating
with the slowly dropping pins of my mind.

lights out,
i call and everything shifts to overdrive.
my pulse is through the roof,
the beating has moved to my ears
as if to drown out the silence.

i'm wondering when the panic stops.

i'm searching for any thing
that bears resemblance to that which is dreamt.
dreams so often confused,
misconstrued,
bent at will to provide us with the most pleasing ideas.
time will only pass,
its up to me,
to us,
to usher them
and

it

is

still

so



EMPTY

I can't write.
My fingers, thin, hoover above the keybord, a yellow bug irritating me when it collides with the light bulb
and my eyes, irritated as they are, and the tv in the background because it always is because I am not looking -

thus the situation being, and me in the middle of it, and no other noise except tv, bug, typing and - eventually, my own blood rushing-

and nothing comes from nothing, or so they say, and still no great lines on the page.

I will have to revise this and see what can I change, for next time.
The bug is gone.