My pen is full of ink but my thoughts run dry.
The paper lies in front of me bare white.
My hands shake from holding back its ability to write.
Smudge every white with the blues.
But Alas! These thoughts are drained from my mind.
The words are tangled up with each other
The words are tangled up with each other, begging to be unraveled to form sentences.
Sentences to form paragraphs
Sentences to form paragraphs and paragraphs to form tales.
These tales that linger my air
These tales that linger my air, wanting to be let out to the world.
These tales are unheard but to describe it
These tales are unheard but to describe it, the words are still not found.
The nights run cold as the tales haunt.
These are the ghosts that will get what they want.
No mercy from the unwritten
No mercy from the unwritten, their wrath will fall.
But how should I explain that my talent is on a brink to exhaust.
It needs time to regain its strength.
To come back stronger than any other trend.
The papers rust and the ink dries.
Left out for too long
Left out for too long and the spirit to write might even die.
I fumble my way to the pieces of papers left
I fumble my way to the pieces of papers left and scratch the phrases to express the stories before they fade out of my sight.
The ghosts disperse between these letters
and the warmth sinks in bringing my soul to life.