I stare at it, the white empty paper
attempting to think of an idea.
My thoughts vanish like a water vapor,
I'm diseased without a panacea.

For nothing comes, nothing goes but echoes
inside the silence of my vacant skull.
Where only the remaining long shadows
coat the acuity and make it dull.

As I clutch my dry hands into a fist,
I think, I breathe, I boil in a red rage.
For the feelings continue to persist,
the certain catalyst of this blank page.

They hover, blinding the depths of my soul,
creating a fog that swallows me whole.