Poems of a Passionate, Puzzling, Pale Person

words (finale)

words.

what a burden.

i look down at my two hands.

they're still stained with ink.

i inspect the pads of my fingers.

they're still bruised from typing.

i look up again, across my room.

the pen and paper taunt me, daring me to pick them back up.

i answer their calls.

i walk across the room and sit down.

i need to start simple. 

i need to restart...

i stand up again and pace.

i see the window.

the curtains cover it still.

i decide to open them.

the first time in years.

light pours through the glass, blinding me. i almost close the curtains.

but i don't.

the sky is clear, wispy clouds littering the blue canvas.

a willow tree sits outside, and robins fly freely around it.

i look back at the pen and paper.

for the first time in weeks, i grab them.

i don't care what she says anymore.

i start to sketch my tree.

who needs words?

a picture's worth a thousand.