stars turn to sugar spilled on a dark blue tablecloth
as the callus on my hands grow from writing
the pencil never stops, i never stop
an endless waterfall of verbal flowers and gentle whispers pour from the graphite of my instrument, oh how i wish i could write such a beautiful melody that everyone would wish to listen to
i sit here with a lamp yellowed with dust
my fingers are shaking from the secrets i spill before me on this paper
maybe one day i won't need to write
maybe one day i will say everything i am thinking of
but that is not today.
so i will continue writing
and re-writing
and re-re-writing

until this unreachable itch to  convey emotion is finally scratched.