You stare at your fish for inspiration,
But all he gives you is bubbles.
It's like trying to tell a tree to move.
Not the leaves, but for the tree to just walk.

You look, blankly, at the clock on the closing-in wall.
Tick, tick, tick, tick...
Infinitely moving forward,
As if it were an endless ocean to Antarctica.

You fidget.
Moving every which way possible.
Twiddling your hair to a curl and unwinding it,
Over and over again.

You listen to the TV.
Hearing constant commercials, continuously,
Is spinning a ticket wheel at the arcade.
Waiting, in anticipation, for it to stop.

You pick up your green lead pencil and begin to write.
SNAP. Your lead breaks.
"Oh, great," you retort and grab the pink pen.
Your thought vanished in thin air.
You ponder if you'll ever finish your second person perspective poem.