Rituals of a Poet

I light incense and candles against the dark and open my notebook. Listen to true crime podcasts while reading posts of instagram poets, avoiding another empty page silently judging me. Go to the local metaphysical shop, searching for another garden quartz or obsidian. Build up a fire in the fireplace and watch hockey, my open notebook and a half-finished poem ignored on the couch. Write snippets of things in blank spaces of random pieces of paper, hoping something will come of it later. I start something, then walk away, thinking it will finish itself - it never will. I fall asleep with a pen in my hand and dream of far off places and mountains and the ocean, but can never put those into words. Sometimes I wish poetry came more easy but harder than it does now.