Poem: Blank Pages

Let me tell you a tale
Of how incapable I am of telling tales
I go over my usual repertoire
Nothing too fancy

But a pen that resides
in the cusp of my hands
And of course
A page in front of me that remains blank.

I tell everyone off my room
And mumble words to myself
Words birthed to be imminently dead
And in their graveyard, I am derailed

Tantalized to leave love marks on the virgin white
The tips of my pen so close, linger midair
Yet it fails to dapple with inks of black
The paper in front of me that remains blank

I want to wring my own hands
Until blood oozes out of its tips
I want to run a hand over my head
And pull my hair off bits by bits

For alone that I might be at times
I am still surrounded by the roaring din
Of voices in my head, multitudes of stories they scream
Yet the pages in front of me remain blank

And even in the rarest of times
That they make it to the page
So dearly sorry I am for my words that
Are run over by my lines that inevitably entrench

Or to the merest of my papers
In which my woefully wrenched words went
Only for them to be torn apart from their fellow friends
For the papers in front of me always have to be blank.