I face the page, blank, staring

daring

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

laughing

at my attempts to grace it with

my menial thoughts

and I face a choice

to change my outlook, or remain a blank page.