Virgin notebooks sing to me in my sleep,
their stark white pages mock me like
cheerleaders at the lunch table.
Freshly-sharpened pencils, all lined up
on my nightstand don’t speak, of course,
but they make their point.

Have I nothing of value to say anymore?
Perhaps the page is not the only blank thing.
Where is the angst of fifteen?
The heartbreak of twenty-nine?
The depression of thirty-five?
The wanderer of forty?

Communal living,
inside my head.

April is National Poetry Month so I’ve pledged to write 30 poems this month. Theoretically, that’s one per day but as long as I finish the month with thirty, I’ll consider that a win. Read more about National Poetry Month at the WordPress Blog.