A blank page stares at you. 

As you consider the endless possibilities, of what looks like a simple piece of paper. 

Those blue lines, 

Are the only things that listen. 

Listen to you rant. 

Listen to the pain. 

Listen to the thoughts you don’t want to, but they yell. 

Your mind can’t hold it any longer, so it gives up. 

The margins bleed for you. 

Reminding you it’s not worth it 

to give up. 

Your pencil calls out to you. 

Reminding you that you’re wanted, but you don’t want to be yourself. So who would want you? 

Empty. 

Nothing left in you. 

You can see yourself becoming 

Someone else. 

Someone you don’t know. 

Who can’t seem to get it right. 

It’s the same. 

Writing and erasing. 

Over and over. 

It’s a never ending cycle, 

of hopelessness. 

The horizon of how much, 

More you can take. 

The sunsets every night, 

Just to begin the cycle again. 

Where a repetition of folds, 

seem to keep folding. 

A whole wrapped in courage, 

to begin again.