My head is slumped
near a small rectangle.
This thing lays beside me.
It just lays there,
Not moving, not touched, just still.
I stare at this paper
with both eyes wondering,
whether if it was the same,
full of doodles
which was made with ease.
This paper with nothing in it
waits for brand new inspiration.
A fuel that makes it work,
A hand with a pencil,
that would scribble, scribble, and scribble.
A paper who just sits there
tries for glory,
and yet he fails.
He tries to come get back up,
but stumbles in the end.
Small rectangular paper
when shall you stand once more?
Time is finite,
you should take note,
for you may later regret it all
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