The paper I grip
Holds no lines—
Barely touching my
Nails, the sheet
May as well ride
To the floor.
The page is as blank
As my stare—it stares
Right back
And is hopeful for ink
To touch its surface
But there is no ink.
Not right now.
Maybe later.
The paper I grip
Holds no lines—
Barely touching my
Nails, the sheet
May as well ride
To the floor.
The page is as blank
As my stare—it stares
Right back
And is hopeful for ink
To touch its surface
But there is no ink.
Not right now.
Maybe later.