It's a blank canvas.
The paper has so much potential
But nothing comes to mind.
You paint the signs of suffering
With a blade and a pen,
But me?
No.
My pains are all smaller
Than her pains,
But I can't seem to write
A single word that will help.
All I have
Is this scrawl.
So I write.
And as I write,
I find
That nothing comes to mind,
Not in this moment.
But do I
Lay the pen down?
No.
I keep writing in failed hopes
That anything at all
Will help her.
But yet again,
No.
