Dots of ink, that’s all that’s there
‘Cause words just fail to conjure themselves.
Though meandering thoughts haunt all night long,
I stare at a paper that is still so blank.
Nomad winds threaten to blow
The dear held page that has nothing at all.
Still holding a pen I stare at the moonless sky,
To calm the squall that torments my feeble mind.
If only my withheld tears could etch,
All the words, my thoughts - on that page.
I could have a peaceful dream,
And a blank page wouldn’t be gaping at me.
A teary gaze at lines that call to me,
Pick the pen a hundred times, still;
The tempest rattles on the doors of my brain,
And I stare at the paper that is still so blank.