Waiting for wisdom.

The blank page... stares back like a cock-headed and confused dog, grinning at your failure, some oblivion of possible words, ideas, and feeling are currently not in the slightest fucking realm of possibilities. Stuck! Bitch!  You're stuck without a worthy thought or quip to jot down on that off-white page of uncertainty taunting you like a class full of preteen shitheads and fat kid on the climbing rope.  Stymie fucks.  Disintegrate, you bare soulless page; into a perfectly pressed concept that completes and expels my thoughts from the trenches of my mind.