Into the crusty inkwell
of my tears,
I ****** my quill.
I probe, I scrape.
Almost frantic,
again and again,
as it comes up dry.

The quill is blunt,
its tip is in tatters.

I hear the loud ugly scratch
as it furrows the paper
in futility.
I draw a blank.

It looks like I'm done.
My words die unwritten.
My thoughts are stillborn.

Oh why can't i cry anymore?