20122011

Sam looks blankly at the piece of white-dyed wood fibers in front of him.
He scratches his head in attempt to diminish the nonexistent itch as the frustration slowly grows in exasperation. He realizes he has stared at the piece of paper (or at least, at the new blank ones substituting the crumpled ideas on his waste box) for about four hours.

Sam knows very well that this is merely a high school assignment and that Mrs. Brown doesn't demand much but a mere complete set of coherent words she could grade.
But he also knows very well that he wants to write; as a small means to express his thoughts and silent pleas for others to see.

So many things he needs to reconsider.

Should he write it all?
Should he write little?
Should he write straightforward?
Should he write in secrecy; in codes that not most could decipher?
Should he write at all?

...should he?

Letting out another silent sigh, again he picked up his pen and decided to start scribbling.

--
This protruding blankness in my life,
Not knowing when or how it would be filled.
Let alone what or who would fill it.

This vacancy in my soul,
So untouchable, yet so real.
Young I may be, but exhausted is my heart.

Like cocoon I've always shielded,
So afraid of it ever breaking,
So very fragile I've realized it is.

The little pseudo hope and belief,
The vain attempt of assuring,
I would be okay.
--

Sam reads his work over and over again, carefully analyzes every word, every letter.
He finally smiles at himself and turns off his table lamp.