Nothing Is Going To Happen

Here, I sit,

Solemn and silent,

Concentrating with all my might.

-

In front of me is,

My ink, my quill,

And the parchment to match.

-

My brain is working,

My heart is beating,

My lungs are breathing.

-

But nothing is happening.

-

No one is here, not a soul,

Just me, my ink, my quill,

And my parchment.

-

The black liquid is dripping,

From my feathery pen,

To the rough, yellow paper.

-

I wait impatiently for,

The words to spill from the ink,

Yet, it remains a blurry, smudge of black.

-

And nothing is happening.

-

I slam my quill down,

On the messy parchment,

In pure frustration.

-

The ink jumps,

Out of its container,

In fright of the sudden disturbance.

-

Eagerly, I watch it flow,

Onto the parchment,

And try to read the words it writes.

-

Nothing happened.

-

There is nothing but,

A dark, wet pool of,

Black from the evening sky.

-

Sighing, I let my shoulders sag,

And wait a few more minutes,

Biting my lip in concentration.

-

The pool fades lighter,

Mixing into the yellowy peach,

And then I realize something.

-

Nothing is going to happen.

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