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I can't write.
My hands freeze like cold coals on a bed of ash
I stare at the pages
Of whiteness, zigzagging in colourful lines
Of nothingness
My thoughts are saturated and drip in libellious ink
down to my quills.
But still, i can't write
My heart beats words, pumps passion
a prisoner of feelings, trapped behind bars
bars of quintessential quietism
I am sprung on ropes of conflicting chaos
like a full calabash hung on a single thread
I long to spill
to fill this empty spaces with moving inks of passion and pain.
But yet, i can't write
and so i stare, clasping and clutching
gripping and grasping
eyes burned with frozen tears
heart swollen with silent beats.
And as i turn to leave
I am reminded by the timeless voice of sages.
That blank pages
Never told a story.