White pages stare back
mockingly, as night,
surrounds me.
I should sleep,
let the somber room,
take over for just a minute.
With the pen in my hand,
I struggle to think of words
that express, words
that become an extension
of who I am.
That pen once fit the mold
of my hand, now
lays limp as torture of a fallen
idea pushes down upon it.
Somehow I have become liquid
letting white blank pages,
soak up my words.
My mind,
my being
thoughts,
they are all,
no longer a part of me.
So words, pour onto the page
like an a storm unwilling to stop for anything.
These words now crash more violently than
thunder and they cease to end.
These very words, now stare back on once
blank pages. Words that share my resentment
words, that stand alone, as the pen
drops as does my hand.
I have never been so at rest.
