I Don'T Know

The bewildered tip of my pen hovered over the blank thirsty pages… I thought expressing feelings is as magnificent as the sight of the sun’s birth from the horizon’s womb... Or as miraculous as a squeamish bizarre caterpillar's transformation into an elegant butterfly… Such a transcending experience still lingers within the facets of my subconscious… As I limp through the days under the weight my tumescent thoughts… With my weary pen, I converse the endless possibilities of a phrase, a word, a feeling… How few ordinary words from countless pens became etched in history… I’m hovering with my pen wondering about how to write and what to write… Should I write about what was in the past; a past I long to forget… Or about a present; a present battle I still haven’t won… Or about a future; nameless, precarious yet an exciting adventure… Should I give birth to what’s swelling inside or consider abortion… My pen is choking…it’s time to end the turmoil and hesitation… I’ll just press down the tip of my black pen on white paper… And wait for a reaction… Isn't that how it works anyway?