Sitting alone, dimly lit room
Sits I, pen and pad, staring at a blank page
The empty page torments, taunts, tortures
The whiteness enough to drive me mad
I guess you could call it Writer’s Block
This was supposed to be an outlet
Immobilized,
Muzzled
paralyzed because
there is way too much to say
Inertia
The black hole
Ever-increasing
Sysiphus’s boulder
A cold specter
With its arrival,
my limbs stiffen
Joints freeze,
the body gets heavy
Spent too much time
Trying to escape
The quicksand that is inertia
