Once I tried to write a poem
but all I found was a blank page.
I rummaged through my mind for experiences
worthy of transforming into beautiful literature
and found nothing at all.
I left the page for days and days
void of truth and sorrows.
And the more I stared into the white depths of the paper
the more depressed I seem to be.
For it is the most pitiful circumstance when one must write a poem
about her own inability
to write a poem.