What happens if my pen stumbles
over words that won't come?
Words that once flew winged to speckle and splatter
a blank page,
what happens if they can't form,
if they don't form,
like they aren't forming now.
It's because I don't have experience,
I know it is.
Don't tell me different.
Don't try to tell me different.
I know my lack of self, of hurt, of love,
is all my own fault.
I know my fear of fear is pathetic.
I know that, if I felt,
I could write again