I face the page, blank, staring
words to jump from my pen
but the emotions that drive inspiration
are as flat as that lined canvas.
Even the gray clouds that seemingly match my mood
have more texture and depth
than the doldrums of my heart.
That stupid page stares back, mocking
at my attempts to grace it with
my menial thoughts
and I face a choice
to change my outlook, or remain a blank page.