I shattered my own soul

A writer's sorrow

The blank page is laughing at me

The letters I'm supposed to write dancing in front of my eyes

But they're not quite clear

This blank page

This needs to turn into a masterpiece

My showstopping symphony that the world must accept as their own

A bouquet of my feelings carefully crafted to be disguised in plot devices and arcs

A testimony of my life, of the feelings I wish I didn't have

But it is easier letting your own little flowers wither than seeing that it is you who has become nothing more than a stem

Because that's what you truly are little writer

A lonely, thin shadow of a being

A everlasting promise of greatness that you may never achieve

You let your flowers live and die on the pages so you won't have to live

Or is it simply not to feel?

You puzzle me dear poet

That is what you are

A puzzling poet

A strange storyteller

A noble novelist

An enigmatic essayist

An atypical author

A restless writer

And you look at your blank page and for once tell it the truth

"I write because I don't understand until I read what I feel

 Do others feel what I write? 

Do they feel what I read?

Do they feel what I feel? 

Do they feel who I am?" 

I question myself

I crumple up the paper and throw away the words that they might've have taken as a symphony

But to me it's nothing but noise