Pain is hands willing to write

But a soul unwilling to share

Ache is a heart wanting to sing

But lips sealed quiet

Sitting alone with my thoughts

Has never been so lonely

No muse to supply me friends

In words and phrases, poems with lives

Stories to escape and hide

The scent and taste of ink and paper

Mingle and make my spirit growl

Hungry to once again dine on inspiration

Biting at the bit of boredom

A muzzle by which I am bound from

Draining all the words within me

And bleed them upon the paper

Through pen and ink and sweat

Listlessness like gauze bandages

Covering the self inflicted wounds

Of creativity trying to escape

And as time winds down, treading by without silence

Books of fact, grim and set in stone

No fantasy, no freedom, unbridled

Surface among my thoughts, floating

Scowling eyes return to my studies

Nothing has been accomplished

My clean hands and quiet heart

Still hurt