white space

for each day and each thought, with all that they brought

would just calmly linger. 

so much that i felt, unbeknownst to anyone else,

the very moon was my only trigger. 

and blank pages would sit, untouched and unlit

for hours and hours on end.

stared at, they burned; to fill them i yearned.

but wordless pages you cannot amend.

so quoted i remained, from new words i refrained

for fear of being misread

although i know well, that the stories i tell

leave me entirely once out of my head. 

so reality or not, or loosely made up

i stand by every word

regardless of interpreted text, of this boisterous mess

make of it whatever you choose.