The empty page

I want to write and fill this empty page
But my thoughts can’t seem to gather,
They don't behave even when asked nicely
“Wouldn’t you be archived rather?”

An idea, a memory, a meaningful story
Can’t seemed to be caught with or without care,
Solely to be protected from the effects
Of the soul’s restoration and novelty’s flair.

I thought I had control over this mess
I was sure I knew which road to take,
But somewhere along the lines
I started believing it was all a mistake.

As I fill this page with a sense of void
I begin to comprehend,
It’s not about the thoughts that I can contain
It’s not about the beginning or the end.

If I keep writing without a plan
The text would lack rhythm, would lack flow,
If I keep going the way I am
I would never be able to let go...

Let go of the thoughts that contain me
Not the ones I hope to suppress,
I must let them fill the sky
Holding on is not worth the stress.

Some time has passed since I’ve been
Eyeing the big picture and doing my part,
Creating distances in places that were
Once ruled only by the innocence of the heart.

It’s tough having to keep the sails up during the storms
And maintain my forward stance,
But it’s even harder to keep reminding myself of why,
Why I chose to do this dance.

For a moment I even stop.
Stop and evaluate the steps I’m making,
I feel as if my poses might be the source
Of the sound I recognize… as a heart breaking.

I tip-toe to your side to check up on you
But find nothing abnormal in my inspection,
When given a chance to redeem, you act like your typical self
And unknowingly encourage me to resume my resurrection.

So it seems I’m determined now
To no longer reflect on stale thoughts from the past,
To let go and make room for my simple self
And to see this page filled at last.

Rain

One cold Saturday night,
She sat comfortably,
With her warm coffee,
Surrounded by deep, but patient, red walls,
People hastily walking to their destinations,
Explaining themselves loudly on their phones,
Rich mahogany sofas,
Looking intriguingly back at her,
Waiting to possess her listless being.

She, seated on a tall chair near the foggy, wet windows,
Didn’t acknowledge the notion of the sofas,
Didn’t hear the hurrying footsteps go by,
Didn’t hear the Starbucks employee,
Serving drinks with unusually long names,
Didn’t hear something so simple as tea,
Being called a ‘tall-non-fat-extra-hot-chai-tea-latte-for-Jen.’

All she heard,
Was the rain.
The innocent rain drops making their way down to Earth,
She enjoyed witnessing this grounding ceremony,
And would often observe,
From her own windowsill in her room.

As she watched the heavenly crystals make their way down,
She wondered, if,
In a far away place,
Someone was witnessing the same magic,
If someone far away,
Was trying to overlook the stubborn fog,
And see the rain clouds persistently block the moon,
If someone far away,
Noticed how beautifully the wet leaves glistened,
While asleep.

Hours had passed,
Before she realized she herself wanted to sleep,
And rest her worn out body,
Wishing only to be woken,
By his deep soothing voice,
Telling her how wonderful she sounds in the morning,
Telling her to just stay in bed,
Telling her how he missed her,
But, alas, her wish,
Would only be a wish,
For he himself was a raindrop,
That would never fall upon on her ground...