Writer's block

Staring at the vastness of a blank and empty page.
My lack of words like winter,
Feels like it's gone on for fucking ages.
Long and cold, drawn out,
And here only white is the colour.

Words used to offer comfort.
A blanket of protection.
Hopes and dreams, rejection,
Immortalised from my mind, to eye,
To hand, to paper, to be read,
And re-read, and read again,
And yet now my pen doesn't feel like a friend.

Though if I'm being honest,
And I'm not trying to pretend,
Life seems to be the same at the moment.
No fun.
Adjectively I'm no more than numb.
Quite close to done.

There's a subtle difference between love and hate,
But to me they're completely fuelled the same,
And it's worse, it's so much worse,
the pain of feeling nothing at all.
As if there is no pride, and no rise, no fall.

And I might watch this white page turn to black.
Vocabulary, emotion could be what I lack
Yet I still feel and it seems to be more than that.
My words couldn't do this nothingness justice.
So I won't.
I'll leave it just like that.