. . .

this keyboard is hardly inspirational.
my monitor staring blank.
my maroon walls mildly melodramatic,
calling out for genius;calling for drama
from my finger tips.
if i could sleep,i would.but these
bloody walls are expecting...forcing some,
some stanza.forcing words to fit
some pentemeter;some prose or poetry;
anything but Blank.
but i am . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . .
. .
Blank.

nonething.

nothing comes from nothing.not inspiration, not genius, not anything.when a plant's sap is drained, it will remain dead and then wither.there will be no rebirth.there is no elixir for nothing, for void, for vacuum, for nullity, for dead plants.how sad then, that from nothing we want something.some luck, some fortune, some chance.how selfish it is to want that luck to arrive with no action at our end.inaction bears non activity and non activity bears nothing and nothing bears
nothing.
dead plants do not bear fruit.