I thought I could write, but oh how wrong was I.
My voice is soundless, and my words have scratched the page, written in a leadless pencil.
My pen is quenched of ink, and my soul is an empty crevasse, cold a bleak.
Where is my muse to light the words that will fill my stories.
Nowhere.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 4:35 PM UTC
I thought I could write, but oh how wrong was I.
My voice is soundless, and my words have scratched the page, written in a leadless pencil.
My pen is quenched of ink, and my soul is an empty crevasse, cold a bleak.
Where is my muse to light the words that will fill my stories.
Nowhere.
