My imagination always running
Yet can never be put on paper
Where have my ideas gone?
Where has my inspiration disappeared?
It feels like my mind is just a static
Quiet, awkward, eerie
I can grab a pen
Yet I can never write down the words that I want
I am not an artist
Nor am I a person to even write down this poem
What does one look for in a work of art anyway?

Am I just putting myself down?
Or am I just really not meant to be a writer?
My blank mind
My blank papers
Scattered
All over
My bedroom
My trash is, piling up with drafts
Scribble, scribble
Then throw
What a waste, what am I doing?
Should I still use this talent of mine?
Or do I just think that it's a talent?

I feel like 'The Thinker'
Always indecisive
Always hesitant
Always...thinking
Never...doing
I look at the people around me
And see that they are better than me
My world slowly turning black and white
Like the color of the music sheet and piano keys
Yet, why do I always bring myself down?
I will never know the answer of my very own question

I'm still here
Thinking, thinking, thinking
I want an idea to hit me like a storm
Yet my brain doesn't seem to work
A static it truly is, my brain
In my bedroom you will see
My blank mind yet full of imagination
Scattered along with blank papers