Warfare of the Brain
To Be Pure

I wanted to write down exactly what I feel,

Everything that has been cooped up and locked away

Inside the deepest, darkest part of my soul,

But somehow the paper stayed empty

And I couldn’t have described it any better.

No.

This is what I am feeling now, I thought,

As I stared at the blank sheet.

White, a blanket of pure untainted white;

A white that seems to contain all the possible shades of colors

Blended into a color on its own,

But also a white that is as bare and plain

As a desert devoid of any living organisms.

I raised the pencil to the paper once again,

To write down my twisted thoughts;

Thoughts pregnant with emotion, with secrets, and with heaviness.

But I can’t do it.

To taint and stain the beauty of this blankness,

That carried more inspiration than I could ever summon,

With the color of my burdens seemed to feel like a crime.

I set the pencil down.

The clatter of plastic echoed throughout the silence.

The paper stays blank

And this blankness is exactly what I feel.

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