I have been meaning to write words
But I end up writing melancholy.
I have pages after pages
Filled with silence and blank spaces
And every page ends with a comma.
Inside some parentheses you may find
Some side-tracked love stories
But sadly they die when the parentheses closes.
Some friends have offered help
and have tried to write a few words in ink
But strangely their ink is dried out
And so the pages remain blank.
I met an author who lives in a stale city
In a rundown apartment
Amidst dogs she says she rescued
But it looks like the other way round
And she laughed when I told her.
She said “It’s just writer’s block my dear”
But her answers were vague.
It’s not writer’s block
I can still write melancholy
And fill pages after pages with silence
Just not words, just not words.