Here's a blank page.
And it's been so long since I've written that I have no idea what to do with it.
The little blinking line is tapping it's toe against the pixels impatiently.
It's waiting for something.
It's waiting for me.
And so is my therapist, she'll be waiting. Not yet, but she will be by 3:35.
It doesn't matter because trust me, I've been wasting more than five minutes of her time,
But she'll be waiting nonetheless.
She'll charge me in currency,
Thought I'm the one doing all the hard work of spilling my soul to her.
And trust me, it does spill, right from my eye sockets and onto the floor.
Her office is a harbor and I'm crying the ocean.
Maybe I'm just taking on water.
I mean half the time I don't have a clue what I'm even crying about.
But she does so I guess that means something.
But she can't bring the old me back.
She can't write my poems for me.
She can't paint my paintings or bring back my creativity.
She can't tell my jokes or smile my smile.
And neither can I anymore.