Silent is the night as I stare upon the blank page

marveling what radiance may come by my pen

worried my mind might be trapped within a cage

as silent poets are no longer the wiser men.

Blocked from this world, sheltered from all life

I languish for daylight while pining for new hope

the struggles nag my brain like an hateful wife

stressed to bring out something of immense scope.

It should not feel this hard, never this strained

the words should want to flow out like a river

rather than feeling this confined, this restrained

as I fear not a word shall ever run off this quiver.

Art like life is difficult to bring forth into the light

one must keep fighting and continue to write.