All Possibilities

The page will remain blank for as long
as you wish it to be so.

It cannot speak, cannot wield the pen
onto itself.

My own words are not enough to say
what should be said.

I stare at the page as though it could
reveal more than it can.

I cannot think, cannot find the way
to pry anything out

worth thinking, worth saying.
I have become impossible,

but perhaps, I am finding that
I have always been so, and

will continue to be as such.