Melancholy

Sometimes I watch my hand tremble

yet hold pen to paper still.

Hovering above a line uncreased

listening to my soul's whisper.

Blank pages of the past

almost mocking in its taunt.

The urge to tell my story,

yet it's Now that matters.

Deeply I feel, too much at times

no attempt to express,

just let the drops flow.

Waves crash upon me,

pen runs softly dry

pages go unfilled of ink

printed with tears I cry