A Poem On... Failing to Write A Poem

     So I find myself in the incredibly ridiculous situation of having written a poem on failing to write a poem. Which is a paradox. Of which I (as recently as two hours ago) learned the meaning of. Which is truly confusing.
     How could one possibly write a poem about failing to write a poem? I guess I'd better start at the beginning. Which, as Lewis Carroll well knows, is the only place to start.
     For some reason, I find myself sitting at home on a Saturday night watching Vlogbrothers videos on Youtube. And after I have strictly told myself off for spending so much time on the computer, vowed to not touch the computer again for the rest of the evening, disobeyed that vow every time I come back from the bathroom, or finished my sandwich, or sat depressed in a chair by the window wondering the true meaning of life, I somehow thought to myself,
"You know what? I should sit down and write a poem."
     It was only after I sat down with a pencil and two sheets of blank lined paper (which could also be a paradox, considering whether or not the paper is blank if it is lined) that I remembered why I have never written real poetry outside of 3rd grade English class: I HAVE NOTHING TO WRITE ABOUT. So I ended up writing a poem about how I suck at writing meaningful poetry. Let's face it.

1. I don't have a love interest to which I could devote pages of love poetry.
2. Or a pet hamster who just died to which I could write about in celebration of its (regrettably short) life. 
3. I live in Indonesia, where I can't even write about how Spring has come or anything. Because it's Summer ALL YEAR LONG. 
4. It's a Saturday night, it's hot and quiet and my brain is on vacation.

     Okay, I've held off on this long enough, behold, the poem about writing a poem (which, I notice I have previously failed to mention, is not actually titled Poem about writing a poem.

White Blank Page

By: Chichi

Staring at the white blank page,

Failing to fill it up with rage.

Nor sadness, joy, nor fear of age,

Of which is nonexistent.

Perhaps I'd better fill my days,

With other thoughts in other ways.

But at this moment no sun rays,

For night has come upon us.

Despite my love of words throughout,

I think the world would be better without,

My dreams and thoughts and various doubts,

Expressed in horrid rhyme.

Either I do not have the power,

To do anything but glower,

As I try to capture streets and tower,

Forever on this paper.

Or else such things were never meant,

To be imprisoned, so unkempt,

In such lines of vague intent,

As these are sure to appear.

     There. I've done it. Typed out the poem for all to see. At least no one will ever accuse me of being a coward.

Lots of love,

P.S. As many people have commented on it, I should make an official statement that, NO. This is not my actual signature. You can get your online signature for blogs and stuff at this website.

P.P.S. I just want to say that I'm really really upset that I can't get John Green's The Fault In Our Stars at any bookstores here in Jakarta. Which makes me really mad  I'm a nerdfighter and an enormous fan of John Green's books and  I cannot stand not being able to read that book whenever I want to. So Boo-hoo.