Words,
Conceived inside my head,
Scramble to find a way out.
They scurry along my
bloodstream,
Towards my fingertips,
Which hold the answer to
freedom:
A pen lays lifeless in my hand,
Still amongst entropy.
My thoughts reach the skin of my fingertips,
Which hold the potential to create,
to write
Yet they do not seep through.
Nor does the pen notice their existence.
My words, finally finding their answer,
lose themselves.
So many words,
yet the paper remains pure,
untouched.
Chaos within serenity.

These thoughts then recede like the late tide,
In the depths and caverns of my mind they will hide.