Waging War Against a Typewriter

Staring at the blank page before me, Millions of ideas pulse through my brain, Yet none seem to make it to complete thoughts. They are merely shades and tints of the nigh subconscious, That fine line between dream and reality. Minutes pass by like seconds, Hours like minutes, and still here before me, Contempt, smirking up at me is this blank page, Which I have yet to stain. My pride will not allow my surrender To this formidable foe. Though retreat may be wise, I would sacrifice my demise by my own dignity Rather than give in. I'm at war with a typewriter, Or perhaps with myself. Or maybe the clock, Laughing, mocking me from its perch upon the wall. My head begins to spin as I attempt to type All of these ideas flying slightly out of my reach. I thrash my arms helplessly about, Wishing for anything to grasp on to. And I see the page there, Staring now with amusement. This kindles my already raging inferno Of hate, confusion, and swarming ideas. I begin violently, blindly punching away at the keys, Typing anything to cover the blank page, Needing to find escape from its cruel glares. I was then at war with the typewriter, Or perhaps with myself. Knowing I could not allow defeat, I gave all I had To slay this pugilistic foe, Allowing my emotion to guide me, Rather than my logic. Hours ago I had merely planned to write a poem, And now I am waging war Against my own mind and my own typewriter. In the process of creation, I have destroyed myself.