The Silent Pen

The pen lies still, the page stays bare,

A quiet battle hangs in the air.

The words once danced with a steady flow,

Now they falter, lost in shadows below.

A mind once bursting, now a hollow room,

Where whispers echo, drowned by gloom.

The spark once bright, now dim and cold,

A story untold, a dream on hold.

The clock ticks on; the pressure grows,

But inspiration hides where no one knows.

Staring down the lines, the emptiness wide,

Searching for the muse once by the side.

But pause for a moment let go of the fight,

Not all creations come overnight.

The silence speaks, it holds the key,

To unlock the door and set ideas free.

Write for the heart, not just the rhyme,

Let feeling flow without the weight of time.

Perfection is false; let it crumble away.

The spark is waiting to light the way.

Every pause, every stumble, is part of the art,

The rhythm returns when you speak from the heart.

The words will find you, steady and true,

And the pen will awaken to a world born anew.

Now take the page, let it carry your soul,

The fire rekindled, the story made whole.

When doubt arises, remember this part,

Creation begins with an open heart.