Waiting for words

Months gone by since any desire to write.
Living in this drought
this barren land,
burning with flagrant hate
learning rage
unlearning the white supremacy page.

In the meantime,
journal empty
scrolling and unrolling until I'm empty
just consuming
pages of sages and lyrics of mages
what are you left with?
nothing changes
on the inside I'm still rusty, indifferent and baseless.

I don't want to be a writer that
only waits for words
until they come like a spontaneous August downpour:
I want to be a writer who aches and waits and seeks and knocks.
Creativity is no luxury
it's necessity that takes energy
worthwhile, life-giving being.