Am I depressed more than usual
Or am I so used to the idea that I can't tell the difference?
My eyes wander across the emptiness of page.
Reading into unsaid words
Dreaming of unreal dreams
My indifferent hand smooths the wrinkled edge of paper.
A gesture to smoothen my thoughts
Still waiting for the ink to yell at me.
A silent tear rolls off, making a small puddle of thoughts,
Blemising the lines.
I embrace my burning unquiet ocean
Soaked In my sadness and waiting for me to share a word.
The mark left on paper says a story that will go unheard.
