A blank page fills the sightline
and my initial instinct is to blurt,
every feeling,
every worry,
every little nervous neurosis
with no care in the world for what
might be revealed.
Am I truly so vain as to spend
these ages bleating about problems
I make mountainous?
What of all the other subjects
I could possibly wax lyrical about?
There is infinity myriad things out
in this vast experience
and I gotta keep on mourning
my own stupid self.
Change the channel, you blockhead.
Lift yourself up out of a quagmire
entirely formed by your own
broken brain and skip to
a path needing travel.
You will appreciate it,
I guarantee.