Cross-legged on the bed she sits
staring at the cursor that blinks in endless taunt
reminding her of all the lines she’s failed to write
and of all the momentous mementos that she’s lost
for now she forgets to look around her
when she’s sitting on the bus stop bench
yes there’s stories thick as forests in the muttering voices
but the only voices she hears now are those in her head
so what does it matter that her pen is dead
or more like it – that her notepad is white without a blemish
of messy scribbling in furious fantasy of that which used to be
so now she blinks in resignation as the tears start to fall
eyes wide open on the bed she lies