the paper in front of me remains unsoiled,
no traces of muddled thoughts,
blunt conviction,
or even a speck of wariness.

the solace that i had found
in creating my own gospels
was nowhere to be found.

words no longer gushed
from the corners of my mouth,
nor did it try to burrow into nothingness.

no matter how many times
i twist and untwist these jumbled letters together,
i am woefully greeted with none other than
static and white noise.