darting through her head, faster
than her hand can keep up with.
She tries
to grasp one before
it disappears, but her hand holds
nothing
except a pen.
The sound of it scratching
against paper fills
the empty silence.
And suddenly,
it stops.
Her head is hollow, filled with bits of
useless thoughts.
Her pen stops,
ink the color of the ocean tide
blooming like a navy blue flower
from the tip.
The pristine whiteness of the page
floods with the darkness
of lost ideas.
She lets it fall,
clattering
Against the table.
Ruined.
It’s ruined.
The page
crumples in her hand,
ink smudging,
her thoughts dead.
The page
falls from her hand.
It hits the floor with a sound
softer than
a kitten purring,
but louder than
a tiger roaring.
She begins again,
puts pen to paper,
writing until she
Decides, again, that it’s not good enough.
It never will be.
Her thoughts are gone,
the thrashing ideas that once filled her
head until it felt like bursting
have disappeared
without a trace.
Instead,
she is filled with a
disappointment, a
longing, an
uncontrolled fury.