empty cup

I sit here,
hands wrapped around a cup,
but the well’s run dry.
I can’t pour what I don’t have,
yet the need to create burns—
a quiet, aching flame,
demanding more than silence.

Is it wrong to crave creation
when nothing stirs inside?
The emptiness feels endless,
a hollow echo where words once lived,
a space where stories
should have bloomed.

I ache for the flood,
the rush of something beautiful
to spill from me,
but here I am,
lost in the stillness—
waiting for the tide to rise,
for the cup to fill,
for this quiet void
to speak again.

For now, I wait,
frustrated, longing,
knowing the cup will fill again,
but wondering how long
I must hold it empty in my hands.