Fingers tremble at the pen’s weight,
Heavy as the unyielding silence,
Words locked in a cell of thought,
Their voices suffocated, muted.
The paper waits like an empty room,
Staring at a blank, indifferent sky,
Where no birds sing, no leaves fall.
Time crawls, a spider on the wall,
Spinning webs of doubt and despair,
Each thread a question unanswered,
Each pause a chasm of uncertainty.
Seven lines scratched into existence,
One by one they wither, erased,
A silent scream buried in the ink.
The ceiling mocks with its emptiness,
A mirror to the void inside,
Where dreams flicker and fade away,
And the hours drag their heavy feet.
This is the war unseen, unheard,
The poet’s pen a double-edged sword,
Cutting through the flesh of the soul.
No one watches, no one sees,
The quiet battle of creation,
The mind a battlefield of ghosts,
Haunted by the fear of failure.
Who could bear to witness this?
The poet, alone in the trenches,
Fighting a war that leaves no scars.