The Unseen Struggle

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.