The pages on the desk
White, blank and mocking.
The sun in the window
Shines down upon them
Seemingly encouraging
It means well, but my migraine returns

The pen my hand has touched and put back down
Lies beside the pages
My imagination running wild
It all goes with each attempt

I reach for the pen and try once more
All ideas float down into the recesses of my mind,
of which I never had the courage
To venture into.