I stare at this blank page,
and I can’t phrase
the things I want to.
I can see them,
I can hear them,
but I cannot write them out.
I want to fill this page
and the next
and the next
with words that live up
to the best.
How unrealistic, I think.
I hear it, too
from the people I tell,
from the echo in my head.
I close my eyes
and ties to the world disappear
I fade out,
my mind made up.
It is hard to tell
that the pen in my hand is moving,
it is hard to tell that my mind is spinning.
Pages are flipped, unknowingly filled.
That is until,
the story is done,
the day has died,
my eyes have opened,
and I see now-
I can do it.
I did do it.
And I will do it again.
