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.