Blank Stare at the Window

I’m afraid to write sometimes

for I might ruin the thoughts —

not able to have the justice when

I scribble it with my pen and paper.

 

I’m afraid that my ink won’t bleed

as much as it wants to shed;

My paper might have some nonsensical words,

that won’t last on its surface.

 

I’ve written thousand of words,

might be countless just like the galaxy stars,

But it doesn’t validate what lies in my head if the words I have

counterfeit the purpose of these thoughts.

 

I’m not a poet who knows the magical words to represent his thoughts.

I don’t have a good rhyme that’s why I’m on free verse.

My lexicon isn’t that rich as my dictionary has,

but what I have are words pulled out from my old pages.

 

Those pages were stuck like scrolls from the ancient–

they were dark, torn, and ruined.

I write probably about things defined me before;

I’m still writing prolly because I’m still in search for what I really want to be.

 

I write by the experiences that made me who I am today.

Yet, I still don’t know where my words will bring me.

These words might just stay in somewhere else

Or can be dumped in nowhere at all.

 

Sometimes, the hardest thing in writing is when I want to write a lot

but my words do not fit the ‘masterpiece’.

Writer’s block you may say but it could be something more—

something deep, something unknown.

 

Maybe it’s hard because I don’t want to write at all.

Maybe I lost all these long time before;

Logic, idea, feels, the urge to be more.

Or worst, there’s nothing left of me.

 

Maybe, I’m just writing this for nothing—

waiting for the words to come, to devour me again.

I want to be consumed by their passion to be written,

Or maybe the words don’t like me anymore…