She can’t write.
like the tip of her pen is
imprisoned  just inches on that
white sheet drenched with nothingness.

She can’t write.
as if she began to freeze
when she is under
the line where it cuts the globe into half.

She can’t write.
like the words were nowhere near her,
and they ran faster and farther from her.

She can’t write.
as if her words was playing with her
a game of hide-and-seek, and she was it.

And still, she can’t force the words out
like note stuck in a rusty abandoned piano keys.
Restless, she remains hidden in words she can’t find.