Expectant Pages

Blank mind, blank pages.
My muse has gone
On vacation, leaving me
Alone
And locked up within myself;
My desperation burning holes
Onto a bruised consciousness, since
The steam cannot escape.
How do I vent now?
When there is no
Solid outline
Visible through a veil of gray,
When the road paved with notebook lines
Has faded
From beneath my feet,
How can I determine
Which premise will lead me
Out of the forlorn bog?
I just can't.
Those empty pages
Float carelessly across the room,
Urging me
To infuse them with sentiment,
To transform them into landscapes,
And populate them with souls.
Will I never live up to expectations?
Let them drift
Away,
To more a more promising prison,
Where a less tormented mind
Can inscribe them with
The wisdom and emotion
I wish I could supply.