(I haven't thought of how to break this poem so excuse me for the ugliness of the lines)
I took the pen at hand and popped the cap back on.
I did this more than once, on and off out of frustration.
The parchment paper beneath my hand, still untouched and still so dry. Nothing comes to my head as I think of stories to write.
Is this the beginning of the end? I've come to a
point where my feelings no longer jump off and on to the paper.
I look down again and popped the cap off the pen.
Still, nothing but dead silence. I placed the pen down
on the paper. I didn't bother to put the cap back on.
I'll let it dry and leave the paper blank. It's fine.
I guess…
