Blank pages

Let me tell you a tale

Of how incapable I am of telling tales

I go over my usual repertoire

Nothing too fancy

But a pen that resides

in the cusp of my hands

And of course

A page in front of me that remains blank.

I tell everyone off my room

And mumble words to myself

Words birthed to be imminently dead

And in their graveyard, I am derailed

Tantalized to leave love marks on the virgin white

The tips of my pen so close, linger midair

Yet it fails to dapple with inks of black

The paper in front of me that remains blank

I want to wring my own hands

Until blood oozes out of its tips

I want to run a hand over my head

And pull my hair off bits by bits

For alone that I might be at times

I am still surrounded by the roaring din

Of a thousand voices, multitudes of stories they scream

Yet the pages in front of me remain blank

And even in the rarest of times

That they make it to the page

So dearly sorry I am for my words that

Are run over by my lines that inevitably entrench

Or to the merest of my papers

In which my woefully wrenched words went

Only for them to be torn apart from their fellow friends

For the papers in front of me always have to be blank.