Poetry, Quill

Empty

It’s 2 P.M.

The heat outside being intolerable,

And the tears uncontrollable.

With a trembling hand, swollen eyes and a deep aching heart, I began to write.

But what?

Silence is what surrounds me and thoughts are being crumbled like a paper.

With listless eyes I look around.

What should I write?

A paragraph, a story, a poem?

What will comfort me?

With a whole lot of effort I put down my pen to write,

And the paper stays just the way I feel,

EMPTY.

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