Blanks

To say it has been a bad week would do injustice to the chaos that has engulfed my mind these past six days. 

I wish I could claim that writing helped... 

But I can't. 

Not this time.

Some weeks, I type in lines that mean absolutely nothing to me. Thus, I scribbled this poem down out of frustration. 

I start loading the page
With plotline bullets
Only to shoot blanks 
That create nothing
But sound.

The stories I tell 
Are meant to leave imprints 
Upon otherwise moving targets,

But I am unable to tell them,
My mind is empty,

My breath 
A series of ragged uptakes

Words
Without stories.

I am a storyteller
With a blank piece of paper,
Reading scribbles and notes
That form sentences and thoughts,
Cohesive paragraphs that make up plots,
But none worth telling. 

So now,
I sit quietly,
Gun blanks at the walls,
In the hopes that a bullet would connect properly,
And that I can take up my post
As a storyteller
With books in hand
Instead of random pieces of paper.