What will you write now?

And here I am.

This blank screen with a blinking cursor.

Asking myself, what will you write now?
And I don't know.

I can write for everything and everyone,

and I can shout at anyone who thinks I can't.

But here I am,

playing a game of stare

with the flickering cursor

and losing.

So how do I shout at myself?

I had heard what grief gives you.

It was supposed to give you more, wasn't it?

More to miss someone? 

More to love someone?

More to think about? 

More to write about?

If grief was nothing but love persevering,

then where is it?

And where am I?

If it is all I can think about,

then why can't I pen it down?
Why is it easier 

to channel someone else's grief?

Why is it that all of me is not in me,

and parts of others are most of me?