There isn't anything

“if you want something very badly,
set it free.
if it comes back to you,
it is yours forever.
if it doesn’t,
it was never yours to begin with.”
this is all because
everything happens for a reason

My desk is clear.

Unless you count the neat stacks of papers
I have yet to attend to
that sit on my left and right
except for right in front of me.
Right in front of me there is nothing
but a keyboard and a monitor that's lit up
with a too bright white page.
The cursor blinks in and out of existence
much like the ideas in my head.
I type a word then delete.
I type a sentence then complete
an entire page with great phrases such as:
"There once was a someone in a land
that was known for its great something or another.
The sky looked very pretty, maybe a few clouds
which are puffy and white
a large, dark bird flies across crying in victory
with a mouse hanging limp from its claws
and that someone stood on a hill,
or in their room, or on the street,
staring up at the bird and wondered
what it'd be like to fly,
or to hunt,
or to be the predator not prey,
to be feared not fearful.
Perhaps this someone will never know
what it'd be like to rule, to live on top of the hill,
as they'd always be stuck in the town below."
There are too many choices to manage
too many places this story could go
and my nameless main character
are they friend or foe?
I don't know!
I knock my neat stacks of papers to the ground
they scatter all over my office
I shut down my computer so that the screen goes black
and my reflection stares back, shakes her head
in judgement.
My pulse pounds in my temples as the pressure builds
and I look down at my desk to avoid my own eyes.

My desk is clear.

Blessing or curse?
Spoken or verse?
Two pieces of a broken mind,
Searching for the power to find
What she knows is inside her,
The capability-
But in the end it comes
Down to ability,
And she hasn't found it yet-
Her brain is full of detailed worlds,
But how to draw them out?
Some may call it writer's block
But she has writer's drought.

Ive come to realize that I cant cry. I....am simply numb. My face expressionless to the untrained eye....

I question what Im doing here. When will this cloud go away. I feel so....empty. My thoughts silent to the untrained ear...

I find myself saying almost absolutely nothing....No sound. Words come out, but have no meaning. My cry, silent.

I have no meaning......

writers can have a writer's block
they may end up as a skeleton
sitting at a desktop, holding a pen
take a picture of the soul, survive

looking at it kills every distraction
listen to the indecisive winds; they float
in each nutshell is another nutshell, right?
a letter will cause more letters, won't it?

the picture of the soul: take it
walk through the ruins of the night
watch stars rolling over heavens
don't think about your inner, don't think

the horizon of fear swallows poems
poems that have never existed
the horizon of fear is a writer in disguise
poets will never be able to spot this creature

sometimes, we want to write a lot
sometimes, we want to write less
take a picture of the soul and go on
come on: take this picture, my friend

the ruins of the night are made of letters
skinny letters will grow into heavy words
words become verses and they transform
come on: take this picture, my friend

a picture of the soul kills all the ghosts
write about it and let go, heaven and hell yeah!
vampires and writers adore the ruins of the night
a blank desk, now covered with words and muse

this poem doesn't have an end but a final
i am sending you these letters, here they are
chaos quietly rages in rivers of newness
take a picture of the soul, take these letters, friend

Staring at blank pages
Wanting to write again
Staring at my phone
Hoping for a friend

At least out of this
I've gotten one of two
For I could write a thousand pages
Before I could count on you