They say that 3am is the hour of poets. And yet I cannot string a single couplet together. For years I sold myself as a writer, a poet with a fire in my soul that needs to pour out onto parchment or paper to keep from burning me from the inside out. I spoke of dreams, of plans and concepts which needed to brought forth from the crevices of my brain into the world that surrounds us. I spoke of music and of costume, of performances which may take the world by storm. And yet i sit here, pen in hand, unable to scrawl a single phrase of value upon the pale sheet which taunts and haunts me. Perhaps I am destined never again to write. Perhaps I should renounce that self-pronounced title for good. But without it, what am I? Have I not always been the dreamer, the poet, the storyteller? If that is not me, then what is left? That, my dear friends, is my unknown. The X in my indeterminate equation, the solution for which the greatest minds have not begun to derive. The fire, smoldering, keeps burning; The words, remain foreign. Stubbornly they fight me, refusing to come forth and fill the empty page. Perhaps in this torrid flame, I shall be incinerated at last, never again to present myself as more than just a sad example of a man.
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