Writing Anxiety
A poem
The daunting blank page taunted me,
its perfect white surface mercilessly
ridiculing my every endeavor to fill it.
My trembling hands clutched onto the pen,
the ink poised to spill onto the pristine paper.
It had been weeks since I had dared to compose
beyond a mere shopping list,
and even that felt like a monumental challenge.
The anxiety tightened its hold
on my throat,
constricting my breath.
I desperately yearned to break free
from this suffocating sensation,
to reignite my passion for writing,
but the task seemed impossible.
As I scanned my comfortable writing nook,
I scouted for a spark of inspiration.
The shelves brimmed with literary treasure
and dog-eared journals,
each brimming with recollections of past tales
that once ignited a sense of possibility within me.
I couldn’t help but sense
a lingering sense of guilt.
I didn’t deserve the privilege
of occupying this sacred haven
that had always nurtured my creativity.
Gingerly placing a crisp sheet of paper on my desk,
I made a conscious effort not to disturb the tranquil ambiance.
Inhaling deeply,
I savored the comforting scent of ink
and vintage leather
before embarking on my writing journey.
The scratch of my pen against the blank page
started off haltingly,
but gradually gained momentum
as my thoughts began to spill out effortlessly.
While far from flawless,
it was a step in the right direction.
