I was going to write something wonderful,
but then the notion flew out of my head
faster than flight should—even on wings of a bird.
Words float into my mind and onto my lips,
but they seem to not desire to be written quickly
nor ever, though I can write is what I've heard.
Can write, will write, should write, able to write:
All are possibilities of situation,
yet I am inclined to say—due to the fact
that my heart and pen seem disconnected—
I shall not write.
I shall not write the words that are trapped inside
this loving, wanting, wishing heart.
I cannot write words to describe its delicate, wistful wishfulness.
'Twould only sink more darts.
I will not write words that mark more hurt,
branding forever in words this time of love's dearth.
I should not write, for it only proves I'm weak.
Weakness of the heart—I allowed love to reach a peak.
Even with all this said, I still believe I'm not able to write.
I am utterly unable to write what has been written upon this soul of mine.
Words can be written, yet will not suffice.
Words should be placed upon the page, but are they able to express
more than what everyone else has ever said?
Writing has always been my answer.
To convey meaning with poignancy and power.
My spirit will not be broken.
These hands will take up pen and paper.
I shall write although words might fail
because to not write would be my jail.