I write day after day after day

All to sit at a table not knowing what to say

What use is it

To be called a wizard of words

I may wave my wand

But it will never be magic

I may write 

but my words are tragic

What use is it to be called

A reader

A creative writer

A poet

I create world's

I build castles and fortresses

I can teleport and fly

I have a million lives

But it's all a lie

I'm a lie on the inside

When I don't have the words to break the silence

They call me a wordsmith

But my forge has no fire

Only cool ice slithering

And twirling

Curling

Hurling 

In all directions

But I don't know which one I'm headed

If only I had the words to break the quiet

Break the ice

That builds walls around me

Traps me

Haunts me

I can't escape

I pound harder and harder

My breath is cold

Soundless

Wordless

No flow

Where do I go

It reaches around me

Pulls me into its embrace

Promises sweet silence

To write

Promises sweet silence 

Is nice

It's not

Because inside I rot

Inside I scream

Inside I cry

I may fake a laugh

Or two

To mask my frozen mouth

I may smile and wave

To hide my frozen feet

I may stare at your phone and say "awwww" at all the cat pics you show me as if it's the most interesting thing I've ever seen

But I'm shying away

From talking

What does a writer do when her words are lost

What does a writer do when silence are the only words she knows

Where does a no words writer go

To a place no one knows

To a place alone

To a place she doesn't grow

To a place she smiles but dies inside

To a place she walks

Never talks

To a place she can't escape

This is my landscape