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Writer's Block

The page is as empty
as a summer sky,
white clouds passing by
perhaps, but always giving
way to the vast expanse of blue.
If I painted glue on the paper,
then perhaps the words wouldn't leap
off, leaving me with grey streaks
like storm clouds staining the sky.

Really, the page is as empty
as the whites of my eyes,
red veins of sleeplessness
penetrating like lightning.
They strike through a black lash
passing by, waiting for the eye storm
to erase it.