Where do I begin?
With the pen?
With the notes?
With a question?
A blank piece of paper,
A vocabulary of descriptions,
The truths of my heart,
All poured out over time.
It matters not how much force I give.
The tip of the pencil doesn't write.
It's just blank with words.
It's just empty with emotion.
It matters not how many times I write,
I'm stuck in denial,
Whilst I try to be true to myself.
My longing heart speaks silently,
And its voice is lost.
