I sit down at my desk,
Staring blankly at the sheet in front of me.

Pure white,
a fresh start.

The pen in my hand twirls gracefully,

Not a word written on the paper.
My ideas were foolish, after all.

Until the pen moved on it’s own.

Long, flowing lines graced the page,
grazing the edges,
but not spilled at all.

The pen halted for only a minute,
as I admire the beautiful world it’s created.

But the pen does not stop, nor does it have mercy.

Dots and lines
Strokes of memory
Brushing it’s tortuous path

The ink held no mercy, and in mercy’s place came agony
the agony tying the strings of ink together until it became a messy puddle
even after all space was filled.
The pen swung
back
and forth
tearing at the paper
My  perfect  world  a   mess    of ink
    and   paper    
and             guilt