As I stare at the blank sheet of paper
I find myself unable to think of ways to fill it
What well become of me when I have nothing left?
No words to speak, no stories left to tell
What shall I do when my imagination fails me?
When my thoughts no longer sing sweet melodies
Is there anything left when all the words are gone?
Perhaps I am doomed to fall into the emptiness of silence
How many have fallen into the pit before me?
Fallen into the endless black of obscurity
Never to be seen again, never to be heard
Surely their numbers are too great to count
And here I find myself lost among them
Searching for words that have begun to allude me
The pen may very well be mightier than the sword
But I am afraid mine has begun to grow weak
So I sit here and lament on the way things used to be
When words held a passion and power all their own
I remember the days when I had something to say
And the blank sheet of paper was a doorway to my mind