The Pen Rebels + prompt

  That feeling when your heart is in your throat. you are sitting there in front of the blank page of your book, waiting for your pen to move of it's own accord. Silently begging it with your eyes, to move, to pour itself on the paper, to read your mind and bleed on your page for you. Like you have so much to say but your pen stubbornly rebels. I am sitting here in pain, waiting for it to free me of my burden. To scream in ink, my hands trembling, not in fear but with frustration, anger. Have I lost the one means that comforted me? Was I not worthy? When your mind screams and bolts in ten different ways which path do you follow? Which train of thought do you purchase the ticket for? Or am I broken and broke. Someone famous once said: If my heart is in a thousand pieces, which piece do I follow?" Well Genius, if your mind is screaming a million different things at once, then which voice do you listen to? Most importantly which one do you silence? I hate this, being trapped in myself.

lemmeout. lemmeout, lemme out. Let. Me. OUT.  

POETRY INCOMING-

My heart is in my throat.

I sit in front of the blank page,
waiting for my pen to move
of its own accord.

Silently begging it with my eyes:
move.
Pour yourself onto the paper.
Read my mind for me.
Bleed for me.

I have so much to say,
but my pen stubbornly rebels.

So I sit here aching,
waiting for it
to free me of my burden.

To scream in ink.

My hands tremble —
not with fear,
but frustration.
Anger.

Have I lost
the one thing that comforted me?

Was I not worthy of it?

When your mind screams
in ten different directions,
which path do you follow?

Which train of thought
do you buy the ticket for?

Or am I broken
and broke?

Someone once asked:
“If my heart is in a thousand pieces,
which piece do I follow?”

Well then—

if my mind screams
a million things at once,

which voice do I listen to?

More importantly:

which one do I silence?

I hate this.

Being trapped in myself.

lemmeout.