These fingers freeze atop the letter keys.
Man, I have nothing to say.
Is that possible?
What words can be found in silence,
But am I really silent?
Am I empty?
Is this heart void?
Or it’s just that…
there are things I choose to leave unsaid
excitement I want to contain,
pure joy I don’t want to be tainted,
sadness I don’t want to face,
and truth that I want hidden.
I don’t know.
But perhaps, why I sit here,
enduring this impatient blankness before me,
is because the writer in me believes that
I actually have a lot to say.