Out of the Box

how productive is it, really, to write about not writing
to say over and over again that i've run out of words to say

is that true
have i lived all i have to live
and given what i'll ever have to give
am i dried up now, free-flowing well-spring of creativity used up now

or

did i stop living
did i stop giving
did i bury the well, choke the spring
cram myself into a small, dark box
where i pretended i was safe
where i pretended i'd lived enough
where i pretended i'd given enough
where i pretended i could stay forever

I'm pushing back the lid.