I’ve stared at the on and off solid vertical line
the line which indicates intention and demands expectation
I must have stared at it thousand times in swelling numbness.
It meets me in blankness.
I have boldly put my pen to paper
To feel the scratch of life at the tips of my fingers, cutting its way across the page
Been disappointed by the words that fall off its edge
the ink dries and I’ve lost interest in my thoughts and the way I share them.
My hand doesn’t make the words come easily, and they are not pretty artifacts,
the value is lost.
Slide it into a dark crevice, and snuff out the words.
The roar of a train and the blur of the life it moves through
this is my inner monologue.
Unquenchable thirst to form and shape the narratives within,
to share and study and understand. To connect to anyone.
But met with noisy blankness,
the comfort of a metronome cursor instead.