The page awaits, too silent to forgive,
Each empty line a dare I can’t defend.
What if I write what shouldn’t even live?
What if I start, and ruin where I end?

A phrase begins — I edit while I write,
Then stop, and stare, and scroll, and check the time.
The sentence fights its own pathetic fight,
Too scared to be too dull, too sharp, too prime.

I think of all the better things I’ve made,
And none of them seem good enough today.
Ideas bloom, then brown, then curl and fade,
I weigh each word until they drift away.

The cursor blinks — a silent, pulsing threat.
I save the file. It holds three words. And sweat.