I hear the creaking of a door in my mind.
I couldn't help but feel inclined,
To look behind,
And see what I might find.
But I did not think,
that it would be my well of ink.
I couldn't help but make a link,
To an old kitchen sink.
When I saw that inkwell,
I needed to quell,
The fear that fell,
Upon me as my very own barbell.
I knew what it mean,
And that it was not its intent,
To torment,
But I wish that it would relent.
So I could just spend,
Sometime to amend,
And apprehend,
The part of me that has reached a dead end.