Death of a Writer

So many things to say
Yet not enough
So many stories to tell
Where are the words
Expression the only way to let them know
Yet still they don't understand
Running out of paper
Yet so many empty pages mock my already unsettled mind
Thoughts seem so clear
But they make no sense at all
Running out of room
Still a whole page is blank
Pressure to live up to my name
But my mind is as empty as the page before me
My pencil point is broken
My pen's run out of ink
But still the page fills itself
With the death of a forgotten talent
Looking for inspiration
And when it seems this is the end
The death of this writer
Begins the life of poetry