Blank

Blank

I am trying to create
A long look at a blank page
And seven cigarettes later
And I am as dry as the aging comic
Or an Aussies flip
Flop

I can feel the words beneath my skin
And tapping their feet upon my tounge
Waiting to dribble onto the page
Like tar

Does it help to be depressed?
The rope and pills are always inspirational,
Sylvia couldn't stop ravin' about them
Until it got her

I still have nothing on this page except
A sorry waste of ink
And a print of my elbows

It isn't easy being a poet
With very
Low
Self
Esteem