the page waits, I wait, words scatter somewhere beyond reach
fingers still, mind restless, ideas slip through like sand
I hold nothing but silence, a blank screen stares back
I am its reflection, still quiet, waiting for a spark that does not come
thoughts circle but never land, each sentence feels borrowed
each word, misplaced I sit with the emptiness until it feels like home
I try to start, but the lines unravel before they form
something is stuck, maybe it is me or maybe it is just the day
the cursor blinks like a heartbeat I cannot feel, time moves, but I stay here
unmoved, unwritten, the emptiness is not a void, but a mirror
it shows me all the things I cannot yet name
I chase meaning, but it hides in the spaces between thoughts
the words are there, I can almost hear them, soft, distant whispers
the screen waits for a beginning, but all I have are unfinished lines
the act of writing feels distant, almost forgotten, like a language I once knew
perhaps the block is not in the words, but in the weight I give them.
what if there is nothing left to say, what if I have already said too much
the quiet becomes heavy, the page feels lighter than ever
there is no block only silence that lingers and thoughts that never slow
I sit watching the words float by, waiting for one brave enough to stay
what if the page does not need perfection, only presence
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