Do you ever stay up at night staring at that blank page?
The same waxy coat and thin blue lines you've been fixated on since the third grade,
waiting for it to speak to you and show you the way.
Promises of endless possibilities, confined indefinitely
to the bars spread across the parchment cage.
Holding back the strokes of ink and every thought we think,
there is no escaping the script of tomorrow or the words of yesterday.
Aren't you tired of writing in between the lines?
Or fear that you've wasted your time?
If so just remember, not even poetry has rules to its rhyme.
All scattered around
Some lined up
Some thrown around
Sandals and tennis shoes
Flats and flip-flops
Big shoes and tiny shoes
Showing the busy life
Coming and going
It wasn't the heartbreak, no.
It wasn't the anxiety or lack of motivation.
It wasn't the drugs that killed him.
I think that he simply got tired
Of all those lined up houses
In his neighbourhood.
— The End —