As a writter I mastered the art of drawing insipiration from anything and anyone around me instantly with so much ease. But that wasn't the case that night. I remember seating on my bed with a pen in one hand and the dictionary in the other. On my lap was the writting pad and laying open beside me was the thesaurus.
I warmly looked around the room my eyes keenly searching for the pinnacle of my poem that night. But what greeted me was a cold glare from the four walls. I looked down and noticed the woolen rag on my floor painfully detaching herself from me...not to mention the cieling which dreadfully gazed down at me. I turned my attention to my bed and I realised that aside from carrying my weight , it wasn't willing to offer anything else.
My pillow screamed nothing but empty lines. Agitated by the tacit feeling I put away everything I had in my hands and before I could move an inch the four walls spoke and asked me how it was I expected to draw inspiration from a room where nothing ever happened.

The End.

© Shak_Irah