I see myself as an empty vessel

but I cannot use it.

It’s been overdone.

So what if amphoras seem so inspiring

right at this moment?

I can't make poetry

that has been written thousands of times before,

since the ancient Greeks.

I am wringing my brains to drip

a metaphor, an image, something

to start my poem.

My verses squirm,

coil and hiss inside my chest

digging their way out

with venomous tails.

Feel that? Do you feel it?

See what I'm talking about?

Where are the words of this world?

Where are the beautiful, fresh, crispy new morning words

that smell like night jasmine?

Without words coming through my pen

I'll need a doctor,

I'll need open chest surgery

to extract this entangled mess of

you know,

everything that's bothering me these days

anxiety, dreams, end-of-summer rains,

no idea what to cook for dinner.

Right, so

it looks like this amphora of mine

was not that empty after all.

Oh, you treacherous, beautiful, antique cliché!