Blown out
We are meant to write down something beautiful
and stain the pages red.
But all I have is a white page
with scratches in blue pen.
The scratches won’t amount to anything;
They don’t mean a thing.
They won’t ever mean a thing.
I can’t write a poem in scratches;
They can’t make a sound.
I want to make a sound.
Just let me make a sound.