A blank page waiting.
For me to ink the words.
Yet, nothing happens.
No words pour out.
When writing fails,
I read my poems.
And I fuss over them.
And wonder their purpose.
Will it touch another’s heart?
To lift a weary soul.
Will it bring on a sigh?
To hold, to inspire.
Your opinion I used to seek.
Every now and then.
Waiting for your praise.
I had to ask, always.
I wait for your comment.
But, I’ve stopped asking you.
An emptiness for this poem.
For you may not read it.
Your silence, a sharp blow.
Failure leaping off the page.
As I write my heart on paper.
This rush of feeling less.
Each heartbeat, write!
So there are no regrets.
For when I am gone,
I’ll not leave a blank page.
By C.E. Pereira
(23-7-2019)
HoneyGwhiz 
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