The Silent Writer

I place a white candle on the hardwood surface
I reach for the feelings I think are the furthest
I rest my pen against a white sheet of paper
I have what to write but I want something greater
ink dribbles down the side of my pen
once again to write pains of women and men
it falls like the rain outside of my window,
but the right words are lost in an untouched limbo
when I stop and look up at the midnight sky
it's a deep, mournful blue that cries in reply
there are no stars, just the glistening rain
it seems there is nothing to explain the pain
it stops me like a lump that rises in your throat,
stealing away your speech and the monologue you wrote
while the candles melt slowly and waste into the night
a growing need to write but a darkening light
no feelings can be seen, and no music heard
I draft a first, a second, and a third
but when I cannot describe what I cannot hear
my confused feelings only lead to fear
and when I cannot describe it no one can listen
they hide underneath those tears that glisten
my thoughts try to still yet they change with the tide
and the paper stays as blank as the emptiness inside

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