Mary Hobson

Despair

I hate this page.
No black on white,
no crossings out, not one scrawled word.
It is demanding that I write,
empty my head,
release my rage,
my love of the absurd,
my grief.
Well yes. It would be a relief.
Something I need to do.
A chore.
Like clearing dead leaves from the overflow.
But is it anything you’d like to know?
Why should I empty it on you?
It’s all been said
before.