How many times do I have to start over?
My lip is twitching and my stares are getting blanker.
Nothing but the pen to the paper soothes.
The jet black contrast of the meaningless scribble upon pages of brown.
The words themselves don't matter, and I pretend I'm writing something important.
Something meaningful.
I stare past the pages and into the ether until what I'm writing becomes a blur, and just a pattern. A pattern that only I can find comfort from.
The whole reason for language, for letters, for words, for sentences, paragraphs, essays, poems, stories and lyrics is lost. Non existent.
Just a meaningless byproduct of the release.
Perhaps under a different light, at a different time, revealing.
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