On Writing Nothing

Makda’s piece explores tension between waiting for inspiration and practicing honesty, between the pressure to produce something meaningful and the quiet reality of ordinary days. It questions the idea that writing must be fueled by exceptional experiences in order to be worthwhile, and instead suggests that paying attention to the seemingly mundane regularities of daily life can be a form of creative and emotional rigor in itself.

It's 10:37pm on a Tuesday and I’m searching for inspiration. 
For something, somewhere,
to ignite forgotten creativity,
hidden behind walls of self-doubt.

I'm sick of reading about writing,
and even moreso of writing about things that I’ve read.
I long to write about what I've done,
and plan to do,
who I am and who I strive to become,
about moments lived that,
light me on fire and rip me to shreds.

Still, I wait to be inspired,
pretending to look for something to say,
preferring to comment on what others have already said,
forming opinions on their opinions. 

Its cowardice, I know,
it takes bravery to be both author and subject,
to live deliberately and say something new,
inspiration merely requires patience.

I say patience, but I mean procrastination,
great writing requires honesty  I’ve heard,
and the truth is,
while say I long to live deliberately,
sometimes reality interferes,
and the days pass,
with nothing wild or freeing or unique to write about.

Pages stay blank
my pen goes untouched
the ink dries,
and therein lies the problem,
in the pursuit of meaningful writing,
I relegate myself to no writing at all.

Perhaps frivolous, yet honest, prose is worth something?
As much worth as we prescribe it, I presume,
I wish I prescribed more worth to writing about the mundane,
about late nights spent gazing at the shadows dancing above my bedroom ceiling fan,
or missed mornings supplemented by groggy 12:45pm ‘breakfasts’,
regular days becoming regular nights and the cycle repeating,
because maybe this circling, quiet life,
is the only thing I’ve ever actually been inside of long enough,
to tell the truth about.

Makda began writing poetry three years ago as a way to process her inner life during university, using her poetry journal as a place to release her innermost thoughts and feelings. “On Writing Nothing” she attempts to shift that focus toward the act of writing itself, capturing the tension between the desire to create something profound and the paralysis that comes from waiting for inspiration. The poem wrestles with self-doubt, procrastination, and the pressure to live deliberately before daring to write honestly. In confronting the fear that nothing meaningful has happened, Makda ultimately suggests that the ordinary rhythms of daily life (late nights, missed mornings, quiet repetition) may hold their own kind of truth.