Empty page, it points a finger,
It screams insults only you can hear;
You try to cover up, you try to hide,
But the page is always there, Staring back.
Always there, whether you wait a day or a year,
It yearns for new typing, new writing, like a skin
Begging your fingers to move all over it.
"Don't stop, don't pause, don't erase, don't repent",
That's what you hear all night inside your head;
To sleep becomes the dream, to write is the omen,
Expect something from the poem, but not from the poet.