3:30 am argument with he page
There is little more daunting than an empty piece of paper
When what lies before has yet to be thought
It is hard to imagine as a piece worth reading
When the blankness just stares back at you, silent and fraught
“What will you make me”? “You would be Bukowski”
“You dare to sit in front of me, and dirty up my face”?
“Turn the light out, go to bed now! I’m tired of your ramblings”
“Let’s face it tired poet, you’re no William Blake”