Blank pages haunt me so.
I want nothing more than
my words to flow

freely from my fingertips.
I crave expression worthy
of her attentiveness.

I want to grant her a repose
from the mediocrity of my
anemically feeble prose.

But my words no longer
shock and stop her heart,
her knees are stronger
and harder to make weak.
And I know my words no
longer impress her because
they no longer impress me.