I left the page in a hurry.
I grabbed my quill and ink darting for the nearest exit.
How could I hurt if I never reflect.
If I don’t see the ink run, there must not be a tear.
For a writer only writes in a time of despair.
A sentence to escape or understand.
If life is better than fiction, there is no need for a pen.
But what is a writer without identity and if being a writer is part of my identity.
Who am I without the pen?
Am I just another unwritten line.
Am I another dream left unanswered.
Am I another unsung song.
A howling whisper pleading with the wind to scream.
A silent plea in the night never heard.
A host without a soul.
I hold no power.
I am the mute poet with no hands to plead.
