Writer's Block

The page stares blankly before me,
white and mocking.
I will never have anything to write.
It is too good for my worthless words.
It laughs at me,
baring that blinding white plainness as a shield.
I will never get past the first word,
and when I do,
it will never be good enough.
I’ve typed the first paragraph,
though it’s a bit shrimpy and has a lack of detail.
The backspace key joins in the fun
and soon the doubts can’t stay back to watch.
Soon everything is against me,
even my own mind and words.
They have stopped their easy flow from my head and through my fingertips and onto the page.
FAILURE.
The word echos around me,
telling me I will never finish, it will never be enough.
I will try forever and ever,
but there will always be that haunting blank page,
the relentless reminder of failure lurking in the back of the mind.
Somewhere between the beginning and the almost-end of my writing,
regret seeps into my thoughts and takes control.
Before I know it, my finger is on the backspace button;
erasing, deleting, destroying the writing that will never have an ending.
Once again, I am facing the horribly blank page before me.
It stares back at me with a face of innocence and purity,
as if it is asking me to give it one more try.
Can I do it?
Can I take the risk of a crushing failure one more time?
I think I can.
It’s worth one more.
so I go to typing just as I did before.
Half is done, just a bit more to go.
can I finish it?
Can I do it?
The doubt and regret are shoving their way into my thoughts,
but I force them back.
This is my writing, I am in control,
I will not give up again!
I get to the last paragraph, and I can see the finish line.
The crowd is cheering me on.
Just one more sentence!
The doubts are pushing even harder,
trying to make me admit defeat, accept my failure.
But they won’t make me do it. Not this time.
One last word, and it’s finished, but what?
What on earth did I write?
I finish the piece and look back.
My beautiful masterpiece,
of which I’m so proud.
I know it will be great, but I read it anyways…
oh no.
what have I done?
I have written not a masterful writing, but a poem.
And of what could the poem possibly be? It’s about a page and me!

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