Open the door

My fingers itch and my eyes are glazed. These pages are absent of the eloquence and I am obsessed with finding it. Screaming into the empty, paper void just to be answered with silence. This was supposed to be easy. The ideas come from me. I am the composer. I am the God of this world I create. But here I sit, begging the Muses that they bestow mercy upon a poor soul below them. I am no God, I whisper through chapped lips and a dry mouth. If only you could smell the realization rising from the floors. I stand, ignoring the sores on my bottom, and leave the claustrophobic walls of my home. The things I'm looking for are not within me, but within everything else. It's hunting time.