There is nothing left to say
And I am blank.

The words had spilled out so freely,
Tumbling forward together,
Racing and shoving to form a thought.
There had been so many thoughts, for so many years,
Now all dried up in months.

She had sat for endless nights
Through endless notebooks
And endless made-up lives.
She had burned,
And singed and bled,
And had had the happiest nights of her life.

But now the words were silent
And her mind only echoed voices from the past.

“Over, over, over,”
She could hear those voices say.
They sprung to her
Clutching to the lives she had wrought on paper out of
Sheer desire.

It had been sheer desire
And sheer joy.
For years and years
Words had been her sheer life.

But now she sat at the same desk,
Same notebook, same pen,
Same music as background to all that had been.
Now she sat naked and empty and bled dry.

Her nakedness brought nothing of honesty.
Her emptiness brought nothing to fill.
Her bled-out veins — her empty thoughts — brought nothing of meaning.

They had been her friends —
Her words gathered inside her —
Now strangers distrusting and rushing
Not out of but away from her.

The words ran before her
As she tried to chase them down.
But they had always been the clever ones
And they had always been the ones in charge.
They sped away, out of reach, and out of her control.

So now there was nothing,
Not a thought, not a letter,
And the well had run dry.

It was all I ever wanted,
And now it’s all been had.
For there is nothing left to say
And I am blank.

Helped by the song “Gutless,” by Hole