plea: untitled

the staring

of the blank page,

the page which has been blank maybe a year now,

as bare as the winter trees

dead and deader

as the days go by.

if I can only write

once I read,

Poetry Magazine in hand,

does that make me a writer?

or does that make me a fraud?

copying structure

(which is to say, no structure at all)

and punctuation

(hardly)

and grammar rules

(nonexistent, but that’s why I love it),

inventing new versions of old stories,

Persephone and Icarus alone

does anyone else feel

hollow?

are the words there for you

but stubborn, and only if prompted?

or am I empty? (woe is me / void of any poetry)

cursed? (or devoid of it, perhaps, and the misery that is neverending narrative)

ive forgotten how to express myself

words no long er leek (?) from me

im afrade that sooon

thay wil be g ggone four--

fore--

*error: not found*

4eva

i (ma e) ne var [ rite ] again