Struggle

So many stories I could tell,
But nothing comes—I’m empty.
No words to use, none to retell,
None that could come in handy.

I want to write, to give myself—
My sacrifice is useless.
And I fear this, I fear my death
I don’t want to be breathless.

I wait for them, they do not come…
The hour is so late now.
I’m scared of what I might become…
I ask: “Will my fate change now?”

The clock is ticking, time flies by,
The silence thus affects me,
And on myself I can’t rely,
As poetry reflects me.

So many stories I could tell,
My pen is simply waiting.
And there is one thing I do well,
And that is—write about this.

I have a story of my own,
I’ll write about redemption:
Inside myself, the sparks are born—
I am my own salvation.

I may be empty, but I’m me,
Creation is within me.
I search for it and set it free,
The words once more embrace me.

– Patricia