When my walls start to crumble
And I can't let out a helpless grumble.
When my eyes can't perceive any light
And absolutely nothing feels right.
I hold the pen with a grip so tight
That I start to summon some unknown might
As my ever-willing hands begin to write
'Bout the emotion birthing my obscene mental sight.
In those moments I'm thankful for pens and paper
Because they are the ones that start to shape her
Into a steady unwavering structure
They make my happiness a tangible sculpture.
They make my sanity less obscure
And sew a mental suture.
YOU ARE READING
Writer's Whispers
PoetryIt's only at night that you hear the faint whispers of the writer's pen trailing paper. [COMPLETED]
