It’s the nervous kind of cold here tonight
The kind where you sit with your back to the wall
You just lean on back and stare at it all
Listening still for the quietest call
Not due to longing more out of fright

With a pen in your clutch you’ve incredible might
To conquer the demons that sneak in your mind
Too scared of the monsters that creep just behind
Two more creeping in trees and your suddenly find
There’s no greater terror than that out of sight

You push down your pen like a sword drawing blood
Desperate to find the words that ****
Verbally painting them just for the thrill
To know them is one thing to see them a skill
Scribbling and slashing but behind you
A thud

What is there for dried ink to do with a blank page
An unfinished character somehow is upstaged
His incomplete details stretched thin by a thick swage
From start to the middle, kept from reaching the last stage
He picks up his pen and scribbles with desperate rage
but just like the magic of a charlatan false mage
his pen has gone empty, no words on the blank page