The Poet's Wall

He sits quietly at his desk, staring at the blank page, cigarettes and a cup of coffee his only companions. He’s lost in his own head, needing to write, yet, as if he were in a stupor nothing comes. He knows his head is his own worst enemy, for when he needs to write the most, nothing comes at all, except for a pattern of tears, on the blank page, I guess you could call that art. so, he tapes that page to the wall, and starts anew, and the walls, well the walls are papered, with tear stained pages.