The pen against the paper drags,
Leaving empty sunken troughs.
Sounding a hollow scrape in the rag,
It's skin, like mine, scarred and rough.
The words I write remain unseen,
For the ink it held had long since dried.
Like my eyes that have lost its sheen,
Yet, I tried and tried, to write I tried.
The countless truths that I've denied,
All unsaid thoughts and empty words.
Imprisoned inside where they reside,
Stays unsaid, unread and unheard.
A little drop of turquoise manifests,
As my pen surrenders from its traipse.
Flooding all the ravines amidst the crests,
And from the bonds of ineptitude I escape.