I sit at my window pen in hand
staring at blank pages, willing them to speak, to whisper something of my frustration and shatter the silence within.
I curse the ink that blackens my fingers as it flows without ebb, skillfully scratching out the mundane, the lists, the cards, the endless to do's, only to become as mute as my friendless tongue when feelings threaten escape.
I struggle to contain all that I feel, all the loathing of all that I know and all that I am within this small form. The threat of drowning a reality and sometime solace.
Emotion unknown chokes my soul as fear cages my heart within it's cold clenching.
This art was my voice, my passage to sanity. Now ticking clocks and glowing paper mock my troubled mind.
While I wonder at the point of it all.