Unfinished

I sit alone.
In the dark.
Just me,
And a blank screen.

I remember once,
When it was paper.
A blank page.
And I held a pen,
Filled with ink.

That’s what it’s always come down to.
Me.
And a blank page.
And too many stories
Left untold.

I wonder sometimes if I’m fighting.
Fighting against everyone
Who says I can.
Everyone who says
I’m good enough.
And more than good enough.

And I wonder,
Can you be good at anything,
If you never finish?

I sit alone.
In the dark.
Before a blank screen.
And I know of so many stories
Started,
But never finished.
Written
To never be shared.
To never see the light of day.

Because.
There is now why.
There is no explanation.
There is no reason.
At least,
None I’ve ever learned to explain.
None I’ve ever figured out.
None I’ve ever understood.

I only know this truth.
I’ve never finished anything.
Not one story.
No matter how short.

So I sit.
In the dark.
Just me.
And a blank page.
And I know I’ll fill it.
Words will flow.
They always do.

But once they flow.
They’re gone.
Out of my reach.
Trapped in time.
Half written.

Unfinished.

And sometimes I stop wondering.
Sometimes I stop dreaming.
Sometimes I stop hoping.
And I know.

Unfinished is all they’ll ever be.

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