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I sit in a comfortable wooden chair.
my head is pulsating from a lack of creativity.
my pen wants to write down words of brilliance,
and of genius but instead it just lies there in disgust.
in utter frustration my hands pull at my hair
like weeds being yanked from the ground.
I think to myself, "what idea can I possibly use for this poem?"
my addled mind searches the arteries of my brain.
I know, I can write about the time I met Judson Jerome
in an airport restroom or how I felt when I saw
Billy Mahoney falling from a tree.
my ideas disappoint me. with my head in my hands
I stare at a blank piece of paper feeling hopeless
and discouraged. my mind is blank. as my obsession grows
so does my lack of imagination. it's as if I'm swimming
towards the shore of creativity but the tide keeps pulling me back.
I want to do so well. I want to write something of substance,
and of greatness, but reality is getting the best of me.
I am no writer. I am a common amateur. in desperation,
I pick up the shameful pen and write my first line:
I sit in a comfortable wooden chair.
- Mike Meraz
