When I write,
Putting that pen to paper -
Even if to merely create ink smudges
Where the thoughts die young -

I can feel each piece of me,
The ones I know are there,
And the ones I've buried so deep down
Even I forgot-
Swirl around my soul,
And gather in that pen -

So the words and patters and nothingness on that page
Are my everything,
My words, well, they're me.

Let's tap into someone's mind

Young you understood that life was fine if you obeyed the rules your parents/guardian had set...Your goal was to do this...until you were old enough to understand what the television shows you were watching were saying...then your goal was to become rich ,find the love of your life and travel the world unraveling secrets that don't really exist. You tell yourself your life will not be complete if you do not achieve this...because this is the definition of success ...you gain a few more years and start to experiment with other things that could fill your hollow...start of with a little puff from a cigarette...**** perhaps...alcohol... Soon enough you like the world you see through the shade of intoxication better than your reality... But the real drug is wanting people's acceptance ...change your style around a couple times, until you find the one that gets you the most compliments...your biggest desire now, is to be desired...you value your worth by the amount of ****** in your dm ,the amount of girls you can get with,or your ability to land the prettiest or most difficult, the amount of likes...your ego begins to grow and so does your hunger to feed it. You tell yourself that you do not need the validation of anyone, but that's all you crave because deep down in your heart of hearts, your biggest fear is to be forgotten .

There is struggle in every beginning.
What to write in these blank pages?

We get stuck in every white space we see
We stop in every blank space
We stare
We try to start

Words don't come easy

We struggle for ideas
We fumble for words

The thought process stops.

Catharsis.

The ideas flood our brains
The ideas pour
The brain leaks of ideas
But we struggle for structure

For there is none in these blank pages, white spaces
There is none.

We try to achieve form and flow
But there are none
All we have are fragments
of thoughts
of words

It's a stacatto of ideas.

Without rhythm
Without melody
Without harmony
For there are none in these blank pages
There are none in these white spaces

The words
are just lines
are just dots
are just strokes
that will never make sense

In these white spaces
In these blank pages

This beautiful mess.