As I get ready put my pen to the paper,
I stare at the blank canvas in front of me.
It does not yet have a meaning.
A fresh start, untouched by the tainted tip of my pen.
My polluted words have yet to touch the clean world that is the blank sheet.
With my thoughts collected,
I write a word.
Ink bleeds through, permanently damaging the pristine facade.
And another follows it.
They continue down the page.
I let the words flow out of me,
My pain transferring from my head to my unsteady hand and soon
Then a shadow emerges, darkening the surface.
I read my work.
An ink blot drips down onto the paper.
A tear, smudging the undried ink.
Everything has been released.
The pain is gone.
Relief washes over me,
I am swept away in its warmth.
This is why I write.
Спасибо за чтение!