For a few days, my pen will remain silent.
My mind will be numb and thoughts won't be violent.

For a few days, the writer inside me will hibernate.
I don't know when he'll return but I'm sure it is going to be a bit too late.

For a few days, I am not going to see the rising sun.
Will remain in the state of inactivity with no joy or fun.

For a few days, my face will look like a corpse devoid of any expression.
Expressing it didn't work out so I'll try the other way - supression

For a few more days, my heart will not be dilating just contracting inside my chest.
Hollowing me from inside, eating me up.
For some days, in peace I'll rest.