intent to write,
pen in hand,
subconsciously,
drumming it against the table,
deep in thought it would seem,
but her mind is bare.

the irksome tapping sound of the pen,
triggers him to snap his head up,
"shut up",
and her attention is back on the page again,
hopelessly blank,
like the face of a blind man.

a void of white,
pictured to be scribbled,
with blots of ink,
the soulful ideas,
and passionate beliefs,
present moments ago,
now superficially faded.

her expressions truly from,
the bottom of her heart,
yet her words often,
synonyms or long adjectives,
to seem smart.

she writes poetry,
because there are no rules,
that's her character,
striving for an independent strong mentality.

if she didn't string words together,
she would throw them at someone else,
like equations for them to solve,
she relies on poetic release,
to keep her sane.

on another day,
she can write pages,
of unreleased poems,
of drafts never to be finished,
baffling how inspiration comes so suddenly,
and leaves as abruptly.

returning to the still lacking sheet,
yet a witching hour later,
it's three past midnight on a school night,
and with a burn and itch to write,
but without the slightest idea,
she writes about the idea,
of having no idea.

livia