The hour is late,
and my thoughts hum.
Blank screen. Blank page.
But not a blank mind.

I chase the words
like fireflies,
they flicker,
then vanish when I reach.

Am I imagining them?
Is the silence just a lie
I’ve told myself?

I talk it out,
alone in my own mind,
conversations
with the only person
who always answers back.

(And even that’s debatable.)

Sometimes the words trickle,
a slow drip from a rusty tap.
Sometimes they pour
like a storm that’s been waiting
all week to break.

I collect what I can.
Enough to puddle the page.
Enough to remember
that I’m still here,
still writing,
still thinking,
still fighting to say
what I’m afraid no one else
will ever understand.