On a cold and lonely day
I sit, with pen in hand.

Blank pages lie before me,
begging for truths,
or even lies
A prize of ink,
to satiate the soul.

I fumble with a line in my mind.

Not yet have I put my pen to task.
I fumble and I start,
then recoil.

The ink still abstains from the page.

For when the ink begins to flow
it will spout truths
I didn't even know.

And in a rage, it will ravage the page.
Ravage my mind, ravage my soul.

Depleting me completely,
Until,
A calm falls upon me
like snow.