I try to pick up a pen,
Put something to bless my ears,
Sit on my couch,
And think about the words.

The ink is too dry.
The music is too loud.
The couch makes an onomatopoiea.
The words seem to be strangers on the street.

I change the ink in my pen,
Lower down the volume,
Leave the couch to sit on a chair,
Welcome the strangers in my poem,

The ink bleeds.
The music is too quiet.
The chair grinces.
The strangers ignore.

I put my pen down.
Turn off the music.
Sit on the floor.
No words just thoughts.

I need to be left alone.
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