ink flows from my pen onto the
painfully blank starchy paper
the lines form words then sentences
still, those sentences mean nothing

my chest vibrates and moves
sounds echo through my throat
my tongue strings them together into
an encapsulating phrase yet, insignificant

the dance of my wrists with a pen
the rhythmically pressured air of voice
from a vessel with a soul lacking meaning
unable to communicate my truest emotions

with thoughts never to see the light of day
endless trapped inside that I could never say
the puppeteer within strayed far from her puppet
dancing along a floor dreadfully covered by carpet.