I can’t write.
Here I am, head brimming with ideas, concepts, motifs yet all I do is stumble upon these weary legs beneath me,
All I do is bumble along as I paradoxically write this piece about not being able to write,
As I paradoxically write about having too much yet not enough material to make a valid argument,
Too much pose over prose as I attempt to fill the chasm of a silent year,
Fear from self-critique rather than populous response,
Liking what I say over meaning what I meant.
Was nothingness the initial muse I had for this piece?
Was I inspired by the absence of anything?
Did a vacuum construct this cacophony of contradictory lines?
This piece about failing to create a piece,
My densest piece,
The one spawned from naught,
A response to the abyss.