I sit alone at my desk,
The silence for a friend.
My Bic pen grasped firmly in m hand,
My composition notebook,
The cover marred with various colors of sharpies,
Lays open in front of me.
The cold blank pages stare at me.
Sneer at me.
As if saying, “You have nothing important to say.”
With one last deep breath,
And a final glance at the mocking pages,
I begin to write.
And I write.
When I am finished I look back,
The pages no longer cold and blank,
But littered with my thoughts.
And no longer do the pages say, “You have nothing important to say.”
Now they says, “Why did you wait so long to write.”