Staring at the blank page
It stares back.
Full, but empty.
Like me.
Like everything I try to say.
Why won’t the words come out?
Why do they hide when I need them?
Why does the flow flee
When I sit here, begging for rhythm,
For rhyme,
For anything that sounds like truth?
Why is depression so toxic
But not poetic?
Not in my case.
Why can’t I use it like fuel,
Like fire
Like the others do?
The poets,
The painters,
The beautiful, broken creatives
Who bleed brilliance
And sell their sorrow as art?
Maybe I’m depressed in the wrong way.
Not the tortured genius way.
Not the romantic tragedy way.
Just
The uninspiring kind.
The forgettable kind.
The “sleep too much and shower too little” kind.
The “what’s the point” kind,
The kind where the weight isn’t heavy enough to scream.
But too heavy to move.
No epic tale of woe.
No lover lost.
No gripping trauma
Just…
Static.
Silence.
Just me.
Sitting in my bedroom,
With a blank page,
And a blank face,
And a blank future,
That I keep trying to write on
But the ink just won’t stick.