With nothing but a sheet of paper.

A white immaculate sheet of paper with the words I can’t speak in the pit of my pen, I appear crooked, seated in this chair and my thoughts are intricately placed in the ink. They are unspoken by my voice, inaudible to all ears and absent on the white sheet of paper. The window is cold on my fingerprints, but really there is no such thing as windows because I do not believe there is escape nor freedom if I were to traverse this piece of glass.


Outside looking in : there is a crooked-seated me, there is a chair and lastly, a misplaced feeling of belonging seeping through the air. I am glued and I stick, though I never touch a single thing. There is a white sheet of paper, my thoughts in the ink and a silence leaving my breath.


Inside looking out :there is the tree and in it’s hands lay the bird nest surrounded by slowly withering leaves, they are green, nonetheless, for it is summer still but tomorrow the man is making a tree stump of the tree and then it will be unfortunate for those poor unhatched eggs.


The birds became ghosts, as did the birds’ nest, and there is still a crooked-seated me, a chair, and a white sheet of snowy paper still untouched by the thought filled ink in my pen.