The blank page stares at me.

I have no thoughts.

Or is it that I have too many?

Whatever it is, my mind won’t let my thoughts translate to a more tangible medium.

I want to write a poem, but I can’t seem to find the words.

I want to write a story, but the plot can’t quite seem to forge a path through the endless labyrinth that is my imagination.

Whatever happened, my inspiration has left its post.

It didn’t even leave a resignation letter.

The page keeps staring; mocking, provoking me.

It knows it will stay as clean and white as a fresh coating of snow on a cold December morning.

And yet, it seems, I’ve proven it wrong once again.