There's a small collection of
blank notebooks in my drawer.
Maybe two, I can't remember.
I grab one and a nearby pen,
ready to turn one into a
future bestseller or another journal.
It's stored away again out of fear.
The pages are still pristine and perfect.
No proof of a half-finished story.
Or any story.
Nothing to count as a failure. Or an accomplishment.
I stare now at a blinking cursor trying
to type any string of coherent
sentences in some vain attempt to
become the only thing I think I'm good for.
It keeps blinking.
I have to keep typing.
I just have to type and type. Forever.
...I'm hungry.
Guess I'll take another break.
YOU ARE READING
Caffeine and Me
PoetryA collection of poetry ranging from brain farts to exploring why I bother getting up in the morning. Most likely there is some form of caffeine to keep me awake (or alert) enough to type my thoughts out regarding my depression, struggles within my d...
