writers block + anxiety + 1:20 in the morning amounts to approximently...

thirteen days till the dead
line, I am looking for a poem.

I sit on the edge of the bed I haven't slept on in a week
and search everywhere: I start with the walls

in birthday cards and photographs
but all I can think is that I should have posters.

what sort of nearly-sixteen-year-old girl
doesn't have posters? The wrong sort

surely, that is what I am. I look for poetry
under the broken typewriter, in the crevices

on my bookshelf. I yell out to it,
calling every name I can think of.

I shout for rhythm, for stanza, (I would even welcome
rhyme, I cry, at this point), for a perfectly equilateral

triangle of image, emotion and concept. I wait-
no answer. My beckonings reduced to a whimper

I collapse, bury my face into a stiff pillow and drift
to sleep, dreaming of salvation in the form of a white horse

not to take me to a castle faraway,
just to gallop in an eggshell.

--------------------------------------------------

Not a real poem.
Purely for my entertainment.
And yours, I hope.

ack.

STRESS.