Pen to Paper

There is ink in my pen
And I'm pretty sure
If I put it to the page
It would come out,
Creating some sort of mark
On the blank pages.
Of my spiral bound
College-ruled notebook

But instead, my pen rests
Hovering above the page,
Hanging over the space
In-between the evenly spaced lines
Of faded red to off-white
Like a cliffhanging thought
On the tip of my tongue,
Unable to make a sound.

I truly want to write,
But I am struggling to
Break the imperceptible gap
In between the electricity
Running through my body
And symbols on the page,
Translating myself so others
Can feel the same emotions.

"The simple possibility
Of something
Cannot create anything."
I tell my overthinking brain.
I combat internally, knowing
If I force the symbols out,
They aren't pretty or proper:
They don't mean as much.

But then I look down
At the blank lined page
And about give up hope that there
Are any marks I know
In the language I've spoken
Since I was in my infancy
To describe what I need
To tell the rest of humanity.

There is no feeling,
No emotion transmitting
The hurt or happiness
But I attempt forcedly,
Cracking the separation
Of unknowing desperation.
With the simple words:
"To be".