Cold Porridge

Nowhere to go and nothing

left in the tank

left running on empty as

my mind goes blank.

Can’t figure out what it is

I want to say

sitting here alone

as night turns to day.

My pages lie scattered,

my inspiration has vanished

leaving me to ponder

that maybe I’m finished.

My writing which had

become my escape

now resembles an empty barrel

with nothing left to scrape.

The depths of my mind

have been thoroughly foraged

and what remains

is as appetizing as a

cold bowl of porridge.