Not working

These two seem to suck inspiration right from the air.
[Maybe they've been writing longer than I have]
but here they are, in front of me.
The fair haired girl looks up, then back down to her journal every so often;
her extremely handsome boyfriend does much the same.
I'm instantly intimidated.
They're prepared for anything, look like they've done this a hundred times before
in a hundred different places -
hiking boots and knapsacks, waterproofs and hoodies.
They're recording independence, thought, experience
where I just ramble into a tiny jotter
about nothing at all.
But I let them think I'm doing something.
That's half of this exercise.
The other half is trying to write myself into a state of mind
where I'm actually writing something worth writing about.
Not working.
I wonder sometimes, if I can only write to a screen anymore;
if all that's there for me is some delusion, which brings a faux base of inspiration.
Couldn't ruin another good notebook with my bullshit,
I love them too much. And -
god.
A sharp voice just pierced my tiny concentration.

I want to write about the water:
how unsettled and irritated it seems today.
About how the air stings my face, welcoming me
to a British summer ferry ride, complete with a spit of drizzle.
But I'm sitting on the observation deck that I had hoped would be deserted
with two people writing their hearts out right across from me.
The other passengers sleep stretched across the couches
or do whatever the equivalent is of twiddling their thumbs,
but on mobile phones.
There's so much poetry around me right this minute and I can't grasp it.
Cannot, for even the fussy waves, suck it out of the air
and get it to the page.
It's rife: Metaphors trickling
from under the wee metal strips that hold the walls together, or
they might as well be. Instead, I babble on, scribbling messily, mercilessly
into a micro-sized notebook, with an office-orange, micro-sized pen
while the traveling girl across from me glides her hand,
her thin, delicate pencil whispering softly to her leatherbound journal.
She has more of everything to give the page.
Open eyes, I can tell.
I wonder what she's telling her future self.
And though envy's child seeps in and steeps in my stomach,
I hope that it's much, much more than anything I could ever have to say.