The chaos of the blank white
Forms an abyss
With an unquenchable thirst
For what is mine.
Pen poised, I resolve to relinquish
My right to the access of the mine.
My catharsis forms;
If only for me to burn it later.
My fingertips sing to the rhythm of my heart.
Words surge through, blue.
My feelings stain the ink.
An imperfect amalgamation.
The rhymes don't come!
Oh, never mind that catacomb of the almost-lyrical!
It doesn't matter.
I write for me. Alone.
The words come faster;
Pen ablur, calligraphy forgotten.
A whirlwind of my own creation.
Well, I don't mind the trap.
The kitsune of thoughts prances.
The crescendo magnifies it's flame.
The elusive will-o-wisp- I hold it now.
I made it so. In ink, with ink.
Period. Sweat. Gasp.
An ink-stained nose. Foggy eyes.
It's late. My personal "25 'o' clock".
One empty line. Right at the end.
It leers to me, "Is that all?"
No, I won't take to taunt now.
I mar the last whisper of blank
With a "..." .