A page, a pen. Am I too worthless to use them?
Then why does my hand tremble when I pick up a quill,
A tool which so many use without pain or loss or grief.
Milton, Shakespeare, what was in them?
That flow of thought which even death could not stem.
Now... how can I write with the same tools of the trade,
With bloodied hands which cannot write a passable essay?
Nothing to say from my swollen lips but spill a sad laugh.
I wish to write the words, the mind, the soul.
I can't write except this filth.
The ink won't flow. The paper burns.
Someone is calling now. Why should I answer?