I want to write.

My pencil twitches in my trembling hand. My unpainted fingernails hover over my keyboard with an empty document in front of me.

The words swirl around my mind, half-finished lines and stanzas begging to come into existence. Fragments of descriptions of beautiful creatures and jokes that long to be let loose from the lips of characters never created.

All I long for is the silver tip of my pencil to flow across the page, leaving silver marks that convey a story, a meaning. To be able to claim lines as the work on my mind. To stop dreaming in lyrics to songs I will never be able to put together, just splinters to be left to wander around the subconscious of a person who will never be able to use them.

When did the wall go us in my brain that blocked the words in my brain? I used to write all the time. Stories, poems, even love letters and songs. Praise spilled from between the teeth of the few that I was brave enough to show my work to, and my dog would patiently listen to the drafts I was working on. The world seems a little brighter when the friends that live in your imagination take life on paper and wander your dark path with you. Life is never as scary when you can put it into poetry.

But’s that’s gone now. I don’t know why.

The words will stay trapped forever.

All I’m left with is a blank piece of paper and a pencil that’s perfectly sharpened because I’ll never be able to use it.