Hungry for something
I have never seen before,
my eager eyes scour
pages of books.

Opening several books,
I marvel at the lives and stories
of true artisans of their time:
Xiao Hong, Joy Harjo, and William Faulkner.

I stare at each page,
trying to digest
every word
and imitate their style;

however, my mind draws blank
the moment the blank document
reflects back into
my empty mind.

Suddenly
intrusive thoughts rise
to the forefront of
my consciousness.

“How dare you think
you could ever become
a hero like them
without a single reader?”

I finally surmise that
I’m not a poet,
artist, or
author.

I don’t have the
soulless apartment flat
in the middle of a bustling city,
finding muse in every corner of life.

Nor do I have the freedom
to explore outside’s
blank landscapes
as there’s a spike of missing women reports here.

Instead,
I live in my empty childhood home,
bedroom walls plastered with heroes from video games
as I hide away from my mom’s boyfriend.

Afraid of both the outside and inside world,
I remain still.
I am no writer.
I am no hero.