WHERE'D SHE GO?

It’s the blank page. The last perfection, the last place that needed nothing.

What is the draw of a clean page and the writer’s trembling hand that makes poetry? What gives us the right to even assume poetry exists?

Am I still a writer just merely out of words or has the writer in me drowned beneath the bog of too many empty words that say nothing?

Lately it seems the only poetic thing about me is the delete button.