Empty Poems
Empty Poems
I open my book to write a poem,
I thought that my pen could be my middle man,
Between the chaos inside me and the physical world.
I thought it would be as easy as opening the floodgates of my mind.
But my pen trembled above the paper,
And I found that I had nothing to say.
Whatever I was feeling seemed to be a nameless shadow,
And no words in the dictionary could bring life to it.
I felt as though someone had sewn my mouth shut,
And I was holding the needle and thread.
I gave it a moment, and I waited patiently,
For the wheels to start turning and the ink to flow.
But the longer I sat there, pen in hand and empty page,
The more impossible the simple task seemed.
So I put down the pen and close the book,
And let out the breath that I had been holding.
The nameless feeling is a mix of a thousand things,
All without rhyme or reason.
Plaguing my soul, I stood up and tucked my spirit away.
As one would tuck away an unopened letter,
Deep within the pocket of my mind,
Where I would explore only in nightmares.