I was given a gift
One cold January —
A blank sheet of paper,
Crisp stationery.
It lay there in silence,
Waiting for me —
Or someone far brighter,
A true visionary.
My visions were grand,
But never quite right.
Too scared to begin,
Afraid I might blight
The page with my pen.
So I sat there each night,
Just staring it down —
Wondering what I should write.
Years passed.
The page stayed bare.
So many lines
I never wrote.
So much of me
I never spoke.
And when, at last,
I touched the page
with trembling pen —
I wrote:
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒏𝒅
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 7:49 PM UTC
I was given a gift
One cold January —
A blank sheet of paper,
Crisp stationery.
It lay there in silence,
Waiting for me —
Or someone far brighter,
A true visionary.
My visions were grand,
But never quite right.
Too scared to begin,
Afraid I might blight
The page with my pen.
So I sat there each night,
Just staring it down —
Wondering what I should write.
Years passed.
The page stayed bare.
So many lines
I never wrote.
So much of me
I never spoke.
And when, at last,
I touched the page
with trembling pen —
I wrote:
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒏𝒅
