Illiteracy

 Amassing my efforts, I wield the pen

With the blank pages staring at my face,

Wondering what would shape from my trembling hands-

A Shakespeare.

A long ballad bathed in feeling,

A song of innocence, 

Peter Pan, which Mother read to me every day,

Elegies of the dear, eulogies of nature.

My palms are drenched in sweat, fingers tacked;

My hand refuses to move despite the constant effort.

I feel my skin melting, along with my mind,

I battle against myself and refuse to embrace the truth- 

For I cannot write.

Aeschylus doesn't speak to me, nor does Dickens;

Wordsworth stares me in the eyes, reproachfully-

almost as terribly as these blank pages

that have become a phobia,

 Words of ink I have always sought,

but shy away each passing day-

and Oh! They shall remain so, forever.

I wish I could read and write.