Blank.

Sometimes I just stare at a blank screen or sheet of paper, wanting nothing more than to write, but the words fail to find their way out of my head. They just linger there, unable to put themselves together to form even the simplest of sentences. Times like these are often very frustrating, and sometimes it gets me mad. My mind feels as blank as the paper I am looking at, yet in reality, it’s the exact opposite of that. There’s nothing I can do really, except to start writing something, anything, in hopes that I no longer have to stare at a sheet that’s so painfully empty. Part of what I write might not make sense, but I believe that the rest of it does. Sometimes I write poems, other times I write what I feel. Most times I just ramble, but what I write is real. I’ll go on and on about stuff that is pointless, things that no one even cares about, but I know that out of billions, there is at least one other person who knows this feeling all too well. I write my last sentence and look once again, this time satisfied as I see the sheet that was once so irritatingly clean, now covered in words.


Just a little something to clear my head.

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