Saturday, August 17, 2013

Not Enough Blank Pages

what is it that I keep fighting

my head up against this wall.

what answers do I keep wishing

would grace my aching mind.

what words do I need to hear

that will release this wicked hold.

that confusion has laid upon me

that has pinned me to the floor.

why am I walking around in this fog

dizzy from lack of sleep.

lying awake and writing  stories

on my ceiling in the dark.

if you could see the blank page

as I see it from inside these eyes.

you would see the potential of lifetimes

that will never have the chance to live.

word after word and line after line

are running from end to end.

the blank spaces becoming smaller

no more room for any of this.

words are chasing me like an addiction

and producing a reaction in me.

a racing pulse, *a sweating heart*

a need to somehow be free.

I feel feverish and shaken

rattled most days on end.

I’ve taken to the constant reading of words

to try find what I cannot say.

it’s not for lack of fodder

my god, I’ve an endless supply.

it’s a lack of getting to the heart

of what is eating me from the inside.

the answers I want, quite frankly,

I know will never come.

I want you to tell me that what I felt

was actually something real.

I want you to tell me it mattered

to someone more than just me.

but so clearly and so sadly spun

that story will never be told.
*thanks to Jenn Whetton for this line*



  1. "writing stories on my ceiling" - that's perfect, Andrea. How often I have done the same.

  2. If you have a typo, do you have to climb a latter and paint the cieling?

    Just kidding. I echo Talon's comment.