When The Pen Sits Beside A Paper Doing Nothing

there is this time of the day
when you sit and stare and think about nothing
and so the pen merely places itself idly
on the table beside a paper
bland and blank

there is this emptiness that does not even speak for itself
you cannot write it
you cannot also write it off away from you
no one speaks there
except your thoughts

somehow you want to remember love
it smiles at you
and then you spell the word regret

always, and as usual,
it comes late, makes you chew a memory
it is bitter
and of course, like what they do, you spit it out.

to where it lands, a beautiful flower grows

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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