It might be poetry...

Hot days here in my little town, an unusual heat, but what a blessing we have mountains and forests around… Poetry tries to call me; I feel this, no doubt. However, I cannot think of any damned line. I am empty. If poetry is really part of my life, then these days are not the ones that could prove it. I am banal, common, stupid time to time, just a person like any other. I am waiting for something unclear. It might be poetry… It might be also my disposability to lie myself. Who knows?