I should've seen this coming; I guess it was an inevitable moment. The time has come where my most trusted friend, my pen, refuses to listen. It's booming, vibrant voice soon turned to fearful whispers and from there, only a solemn silence. I stare at my Pilot G-2, longing for extravagant inspiration, but the sudden rush of ideas only completes a stanza. It's desperation at its most figurative finest; a hand reaching out into the void, fully knowing that nothing can clasp your callous laden palm. This is when the blank sheets sing victory for they no longer have to feel my ritualistic, linguistic carvings upon their soft skin. It's a bittersweet feeling to desire defilement on a clean page, all on the premise of conveying my *******, since it's the only "person" who can listen. I'm sorry, Paper. It's not your fault that I dump my problems on you.