writer's block spurs blogging

*sigh* I should be going to bed, not staring at the 29 documents in a folder titled "unfinished poems." Some of them are from as far back as 2004. I've spend 4 years saying the same thing over and over again. Sometimes it rhymes, sometimes it doesn't. I've written 223 poems. Maybe 50 of them are actually presentable. I wish I could write about that ant crawling on my lamp -- the tiny being that brings me both fear and hatred -- but I can't. All I've ever written about successfully (like anything I've ever written has been successful) is love and depression. This sucks.