Emptiness staring back at me, not of the paper but my soul indeed.
Shaking hands try to come up with something, an idea to pen down atleast.
This vast emptiness scares me the most for, devoid of my creativity
I'm just like the others, so incomplete myself. An entirely faceless entity
I always turn to this paper and pen, in hope of letting myself flow
Because this plain God doesn't judge when I thus let myself go
When you write, you write down a part of yourself. A part you never even knew existed
And what happens when you don't know what to write of? You're limited, you're restricted
I write not to impress. For I know my musings are hardly worthy of praise.
But it's how I complete myself when I connect to the paper in such unnatural ways.
So, I write, I soar, I fly. This is how I dance
And now and then, ever so lovingly, I give my soul a glance.