Silent is the night as I stare upon the blank page,

marveling what radiance may come by thy pen.

Worried thy mind might be trapped within a cage,

as silenced poets were no longer the wiser men.

Blocked from this world, sheltered from all life,

I languish for daylight while pining for new hope.

The struggles nag thy brain like a hateful wife,

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stressed to bring about work of immense scope.

It should not feel this hard, never this strained,

words should want to flow out of thee like a river.

Rather than feeling this confined, this restrained,

fearing not a word shall ever run off thy quiver.

Art like life is difficult to drag forth into the light,

as one must keep fighting and continue to write.