The tear stained paper,
and ink blot,
where the pen stuck,
in the fortress of thoughts,
a bold line,
crazily drawn over the words,
trembling hands set the book in the lap,
the lavendar leather cover,
coarse at touch,
the pen refused to ink down more,
fingers tap the cover,
the lips quiver to humm a melancholy tune,
pure but thick with woe,
absent mindedly,
the burried discomfort surfaces,
I can’t lag,
these hands must write,
these hands are designed vitally to write,
must write.