I have my pen 

filled with ink, yet my page is filled with nothing

looking around for inspiration I find my bulletin board

plastered with ticket stubs, letters, postcards, pictures, and so on

together making a mosaic of color

going through I find a picture my sister sent from Prague

I try to concentrate, racking my brain for something to write about

but nothing

a letter of thanks from Tennessee

nothing

assorted ticket stubs and playbills

nothing

God’s eyes from Massachusetts

nothing

I have memories of these things happening but I don’t feel anything

I should be able to cover my page in rich words filled with life, but I can’t 

maybe I just have writers block