Unwritten

Amassing my efforts, I wield the pen
With the blank pages staring at my face,
Wondering what would shape from my trembling hands—
A Shakespeare.
A ballad bathed in feeling,
A song of innocence,
Peter Pan, which Mother read to me every day,
Elegies of the dear, eulogies of nature.
My palms are drenched in sweat, fingers fixed:
My hand refuses to move despite the constant effort.
I feel my skin melting, along with my mind.
I battle against myself and refuse to embrace the truth—
I cannot write anymore.

My emotions have buried me in a grave of nullity.
Aeschylus’ words stand hollow, Dickens’s worlds desolate;
Wordsworth stares me in the eyes, reproachfully—
almost as terribly as these blank pages
that have become a phobia.
Words of ink I have always sought,
but shy away each passing day;
and perhaps they will remain so, forever.
My feelings wilt in the storm of insanity,
and my forsaken grave beckons my pen.
Nothing.