Feb 2012
My pen has blacked out the page.
Scratching through paper, day after day,
but my mind is in a cage.
my words are hollow, I have nothing to say.
This prison is crowded,
inmates claw at my temples.
But my key is shrouded,
I want to let them out but it isn't that simple.
Are they clawing?
Maybe they're praying,
I need to stop withdrawing,
Life isn't about staying.
It's about going,
and I am lost.
I am slowing.
What is the cost?
Scratching through paper, day after day,
but my mind is in a cage.
my words are hollow, I have nothing to say.
This prison is crowded,
inmates claw at my temples.
But my key is shrouded,
I want to let them out but it isn't that simple.
Are they clawing?
Maybe they're praying,
I need to stop withdrawing,
Life isn't about staying.
It's about going,
and I am lost.
I am slowing.
What is the cost?
The first stanza very true. I've been having trouble drawing inspiration to write for the past week or so, and when I do the result hasn't been pretty. I wrote this as a way to force myself through my writer's block, so I don't think it will be one of my best works, but oh well.
