Uninspired

An empty page.
It stares at me… I stare at it.
The ink in my pen is ready,
My hands await instructions to print the words that await creation inside of my head.

But I can’t find it… I’m uninspired.

Maybe I’m trying too hard… perhaps there is too little…
My mind wanders to places I can’t describe in words…
And writes the scripts I cannot read.

I wish the man in the grey jacket would stop and look at me before rushing to catch his train. Maybe he could tell me a story that I could write about…
Would he share with me the person he is and the places he’s seen –
Perhaps he’d take me there…
Perhaps he’d take me with him…

Empty.
I tire of avoiding the subjects that whisper in the back of my mind.
The ones thrown into the garbage of the thoughts to be forgotten…
I’m exhausted by the forceful programming of my mind to see the things that I should see; the thoughts that I should ponder and the things I should write about.

In the things I should think and explore – I find nothing.
Nothing that inspires me to write more than this page that I’ve seemed to fill with useless words that hold no beginning, ending or conclusions to a story that does not belong to me and I know not how to tell…
Nonsense understood only by a frustrated soul on the verge of losing control of the mind.

Where is that magic that colours the pictures in my life?
That gives meaning to the moments and definition to the words that create the sentences of a story worth reading – a story worth writing about.

Lost.
Somewhere in the thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking of.