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.