The blank page in front of me

Is taunting me

And teasing me

It’s telling me to give up

And get off this

Dumb computer

And it’s screaming at me, saying,

“Do you really call this writing?

These are scribbles! This is madness!

This is pure and simple badness!

This isn’t poetry at all!”

But

The blank page in front of me

Is helping me

Supplying me

With all its taunting words

So I can write this

Stupid poem

Because even if they’re word-scribbles

They’re actually also heart-quibbles.

They’re madness, but they help me

With a world that wants to hurt me,

So I’ll write them after all.