Bottled up behind my soul,

empty pages, invisible words.

guilty glances buried in walls,

floating aimlessly, seeping in pores.

Empty cries shudder - silent mocking,

mind tramping down desolate road.

Melting glue lets words slip off pages -

rivers of ink flowing to midnight sea,

shaking head at bare, wasted life

Claws ripping, gripping pages from life,

rudderless ideas without any center.

Pen slips from empty hands on knees,

epitaphs carved with life’s mistakes,

unseen words taunt in depleted words

as I open my hands to emptiness.

the pages are empty

and yet

they still taunt me

with invisible words

they beckon me 

to write

they whisper

enticingly 

of the possibilities

yet refuse

to show me

the way

to record these emotions

how can i convey

the feeling

of

being

both empty

and overflowing

at once

i need to know

so that

i do not

cancel myself out

so i 

    allow 

           it 

             all

                to

                  fall

                     upon

                          the

                             page

The pages are empty,

and yet...

they still taunt me

with invisible words.

Ether's smile shapes

silhouettes, fleeting...

greeting every

gasp of inspiration.

Elation?

Each creation explodes

expectation far past

lazy days wounded

with empty

wells of waiting.

Ink me up baby.

No time for down

trod dilatory dandies,

whining tearful

over lagging lust

for verse.

We curse. Then,

with truss and tendril

bend will and word to

finest fill of parchment

waiting.

Or pass to madness trying.

The pages are empty, and yet they still taunt me,

with invisible words and blank pictures quite clear,

Embossed on the cover, a title that haunts me,

or would, I’m quite certain, if there were one here.

Is this the sad tale of new long-lost lover,

a warning to me of some terrible fate,

or maybe it tells of the father and mother

that I never knew, as a ward of the state?

I wish this mysterious book I could show you,

it's now grown quite large, in the palm of my hand.

The icy cold fire; the torment I go through.

I must find a way to make you understand!

The doctors try saying you're only pretend...

Hello? Please don’t leave me! You’re my only friend!

(c) 2017 - dustygrein

(a sonnet in amphibrachic tetrameter)

The pages are empty

And, yet they still

Taunt me

With invisible words

What...

Or is it, who...?

God help me

I believe it's WHY

Do I want, from

This life

The pages are empty and yet they still taunt me

With invisible words

Blank spaces waiting to be filled with pain and love

Emotions and action

Though silent is my pen

The ink dries on its tip

My mind is as barren as the paper

Nothing seeds nothing grows

Not a word is written

All I see is one word inside my mind

Failure 

________________

© M.Withers/M.Strudwick . All rights reserved.

Both the name The EriduSerpent/EriduSerpent

and any written material is owned solely by the above named.

Permission granted for all written material to be shared but not for profit.

The pages are empty, and yet they still taunt me with invisible words.

I saw her writing in this book everyday,

I've seen the sketches and doodles and portraits-

they were beautiful, though not as magnificent as their creator.

But these pages are blank,

have been since that day,

And yet, I still see,

I still see,

Everything that could have been.

And it is beautiful,

the poetry that could have touched these pages,

Had she decided to stay in that day,

Had she decided to curl up on the couch,

With her blanket, and her wine, and this book she so loved-

Maybe, had she decided to stay in,

I could have actually seen these words,Instead of the taunting blankness of could-have-been.

The pages are empty, 

And yet they still taunt me

With invisible words.

Thoughts flicker and flutter 

Like neon green humming birds.

Flapping so furiously, 

They almost go back in time.

Emotions are stirred,

Yet remain just as hidden

As every unwritten word.

Passions unquenchable.

Desires irrepressible.

Speech muted.

Words...

The pages are empty, and yet they still taunt me with invisible words

laden with praises and laced with indelible curses.

Enamoured with mystery, blank sheets are filled in for clues

to satisfy budding curiousity in courting an overly friendly muse.

Muted whispers struggle for sense amid chaos,

among portraits obscured by synesthesia lusting after freedom.

Who will be nourished with blood, sweat and tears?

Whose misery will give their master’s existence significance?

Taunts become howls that cannot be ignored.

Calls from that gnawing desire for life nursed on sacrifice.

Eager unborn rally beneath the eclipse

scratched into the sky from the other side

where their creator awaits, keen to slip through.

Dreams manifest in that nothingness

riddled with hazards that will not allow the story to unravel.

The pages are empty,

and yet,

they still taunt me with invisible words...

The words that never left my mind because,

I was to afraid, or to proud to let them out.

Words that would change the world,

and yet they still taunt me.

They clog my mind,

What if I had a stroke,

Because so many words built up inside.

That I never let out.

The blessed blank page stares at me with its pearly complexion,

Waiting for a drop of blood to bring it to life.

It taunts me,

In ways you could never imagine,

Partly because you were never faced with it,

That empty page devoid of original sin.