For an odd reason,
we place our pencils at rest.
We tuck them to bed,
and the darkness aids their slumber.
It is not to blame.

We,
now the blossoming future,
bring upon life but yet,
have nothing to show.
Our journal,
it yearns for the ink of our great minds.
A secret,
A tale.
A new beginning.
But yet,
we have nothing.
We are nothing.
And thus,
our pages remain blank,
and our lamp lacks oil.