Nothing is the vast expanse of lack
filling my brain as I attempt to eek out
a plausible piece of written art.
Nothing is the stack of bricks
that comprise the block that hinders
the flow of coherent creativity from my pen.
Nothing has taken on the persona
of my muse,
who now sits idly by
and giggles at my wayward ink.
Nothing is the blank piece of paper in my mind
and on the table before me
waiting to be filled to overflowing with word
and mocking me all the while.
Nothing is the dark place
holding the brilliance my mind can conceive
which remains hidden by my dread of entering that murky void
for fear there is no brilliance there.
Nothing is overcome
by a’s and commas and f’s and skipped lines and m’s and stanzas and p’s and q’s and
the simple act of writing.
There is victory in the might of the pen.
The pen is mightier than the Nothing.