Sitting and curling your eyes at a blank page can get exhaustingly painful.
It gives you an estranged fear. Like you have forgotten how to talk and you are just dawdling your tongue in a stinky fist. You can’t speak out. You feel mute.
But then, you have to hold on. Keep staring at the page and eat its patterns that emerge slowly out of it. Think of all the times when you have been exceedingly vocal and people patted your head, bloated words to make you feel important but now this empty page says- those were the most soundless moments. Go back.
That all was so degenerative.
It’s the loudest now. Right here. Right now on this blank page.
When you are really screaming in your fingers and sharpening words to be punched.
You hear the brimming boom, the churning explosions and you made lust a subsidy to anger. People can hear you through stitched lips.
You chop off your verses, pruning them into skeletal sheets. You bleep of all the memories and evade the longing that has gobbled so many empty pages. Reams of days and clouds of still smoke that continues to hover over you.
This world seems the most perfect mistake. To be right here. Right now and dwindle more in such macabre details. Staring at fingers and thumbing pages. With a blank page.
And a blank face.