Impermanent blankness,
impendent thought...
Of Experiences?
No. None
come to mind.
Hate? I know none.
Love? Hard to find.

Still, the need to fill this blankness is compelling
I consider rambling poetic prose
Much like this. Posing as poetry.
Without a message ... right?
Except to those who understand my fight.

That of an artist who hasn't stretched creation
losing against time
confounded by confusion and blankness.
Did I... would I ... have I created?
Have I succeeded? 
Or has my lack of story said nothing.

Tell me you hear, feel, see... something!
The death of an artist lies in permanent blankness
As the death of a poem lies in return to blankness, from life.
Insecurity of one is the demise of the other
Do you see all the words that were... in a blank piece of paper?

Will our beauty be missed?
Or was there only ever rambling
Poetic pose prose?
I lay our life in your hands.
Tell me what (THAT) you see. (!)