Expectant Pages

When writing is your only outlet, what do you do when you have writer's block?

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.