you’re staring thoughtfully at the 
page in front of you, 
pencil poised, hovering hesitantly
your hand still as you consider


the page, white, empty,
holds the possibility for great things–
a work of art, a story yet untold: a canvas
for the hidden thoughts which long to be freed


and yet it remains 
for the fear of imperfection; the flawed desire
to make history with each stroke, 
to change the world with a word


now your mind is 
because you strove too much, aimed too high 
and icarus cannot reach the sun 
when he fears to fly


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741