I sat still starring at the blank page in front of me.
A pen in my hand.
Anticipating to write something Wonderful.
I have so much in my mind but outwardly so little.
But I want to writer, I need to write.
I gripped the pen harder and put it near the paper.
And waited for something to come to my mind.
But all the filled my mind was Fear.
Fear that it wouldn’t be Wonderful.
Fear that it wouldn’t be Inspiring.
Fear that it wouldn’t be Beautiful.
Fear that even if I poured my time and love into it that it wouldn’t be anything.
Anything good, Anything worthwhile.
The only good of it to be crumpled up and thrown away.
The work the pen and paper helped me with ruined.
With my hands shaking I closed the pen and sat it down.
The blank piece of paper blurring as my eyes filled with tears.
I couldn’t do it.
I had failed.
I got up and walked away.
An empty feeling sank into my stomach.
I failed being a writer.