The words have gone—
Fleeing like refugees from a war-torn mind,
Like stars receding from the quickly rising sun.
A pen weighs heavily between my fingers—
Burdened, full with the ink of words unsaid.
White paper shouts—accusing, judging
With its brillance—a vast, vacant space.
Pressure builds—
The desire to create, to share...
The restless tapping of my pen
Mimicks the anxious rhythm of my shoe.
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 8:21 PM UTC
The words have gone—
Fleeing like refugees from a war-torn mind,
Like stars receding from the quickly rising sun.
A pen weighs heavily between my fingers—
Burdened, full with the ink of words unsaid.
White paper shouts—accusing, judging
With its brillance—a vast, vacant space.
Pressure builds—
The desire to create, to share...
The restless tapping of my pen
Mimicks the anxious rhythm of my shoe.
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