Staring at blank pages, watching them stare back at me, laughing, mocking.
They were right, you can’t do this. Who are you kidding?
They taunt me, the stark white empty spaces dismissing anything I try to add to their pristine perfection.
So I stare. My heart is breaking.
Under the surface of my imperfection, the perfect words hide. Behind my wall of self-doubt and cynicism. If I could just find them, pull them from their hiding, surely the pristine emptiness would allow me to fill it.
But the wall will not crumble,
And the perfect words stay hidden behind my imperfection.
So I stare. My heart is broken.