The worst sight I can see is a blank page;
the white sheet void of any substance but unspoken words,
because these words seem to drown me
and poison my lips with an itch
that echoes through my fingertips.
There's no space to hear
and there's no sounds to see,
and yet this is when everything fits.
It's like a driving force, an ache, and a pain.
Its hurts and stabs and wails to be satisfied,
but when it is it smiles and swims and flies.
It moves with the rhythm of my heart,
it doesn't fill the space but how can it fill itself.
Despite the melancholy feeling it can leave me with,
there's something quite therapeutic in
the swish and sprint of the pen as it glides past.
A whirlwind of calamities.
But good calamities.
I pick up the pen.
I am breathing and suffocating all at once
and its like opening your eyes for the first time.
A whoosh of self-confidence injects itself into my veins
and seeps through my scalp.
There's no other point in time,
except for when the letters sing,
that I feel so true,
and so wholly me.
It is in this moment that my head
is sitting on a roundabout
and laying on the grass underneath a willow tree.
What is that life that explodes onto the trees beneath my hands?
Its a vibrant detonation of every colour imaginable,
every thought thinkable,
and every life liveable.
Nothing and everything is written.
The pen slips from my grasp.
Its spell is over.
Now, I feel alone.

-Anisah Mariah