Writing

I’m writing again.
I don’t know where it comes from.
Do I really feel this way?
When I look at myself I see nothing;
my being is closed to me.
	I can’t write what I want.
	It’s as if something within is trying,
	desperately trying, to intimate me
	to its existence.
The pages,
blank before me,
lay there for hours –
only to be filled in seconds
when my guard is down.