I sit at my desk with my lap top open and begin to type.

Just start, I think. Write anything. Write the first impulse of words! If you start, you’ll find the flow.

My fingers stop. I stare at my plant that is trying to adapt to the new room we’ve moved into. Some of the leaves are curling.

“Keep typing”, I say out loud.

I’m not sure why I should.

What is the point of my stories when everyone I know is afraid? How can I relieve anyone’s suffering with a poem? It feels pointless. Self-indulgent. I”m writing about my author career and publishing my book. Who cares? People are actually dying due to the so called leadership of “President” Trump and his side-kick, Elon Musk (Or should that be written the other way around?). Therefor, my ridiculous scribblings about book launches and asking for blurbs feels childish. Look everybody, I wrote a book! Great, but what am I actually doing to stop the oligarchy in my country?

I feel a thick, gray, straight line inside the front of my brain, just above my eyebrows, that has shut down my creativity. Forming meaningful sentences feels exhausting because the words have to get through this inner wall of helplessness. My anxiety and rage are bigger than I can describe. This writer is mute.

Of course, being silent is exactly what the patriarchal oligarchy wants. So I keep trying. I keep writing even though most of it is trite and not worth sharing with anyone. Occasionally I write something that feels good enough for someone to read, but those sentences are becoming harder to create. I feel too much fury and too much sadness for everyone who is suffering right now.

Immigrants.

Queer and Trans.

Women.

Disabled.

Non-Christian.

Non-White.

So many people, including a child in Texas who died of the measles.

THE F-ING MEASLES!

How do I describe in words the trembling in my hands, the scream in my throat, the pressure in my lungs and the ringing in my head?

Anger? Fear?

Words aren’t powerful enough.