“Nothing Comes” and “Burn, and Begone”

Nothing Comes

Frustration! Despair!
I scratch with my pen, trying
to locate an itch.
The blank paper taunts me;
nothing comes — the connection
is broken; I feel
worse than depleted.
I feel as though I had been
empty all along.
Nothing comes — I find
myself unable now to
write even badly.

Burn, and Begone

I consign you to flame,
my hopeless pages —
burn, and begone,
and cumber the earth
no more,
invertebrate excess,
false starts, missteps,
haste-made waste,
ill-planned
flights of fancy.
Burn, and begone,
blow away on the wind.
Only burning
can get you airborne.