This piece of paper rejects the kiss of my old pencil lead-
Its blackness fading
Its magic disappearing
Its meaning slowly annihilating itself.

My muse has turned into a black screen;
Embroidered with small white pills and
Large doses of alcohol
Radiating myself, this black hole
in a galaxy with only stars remaining

In this vacuum, I ask myself only one thing
Am I really a poet ?
if the only thing I can write about now
is how I have nothing to write about.