The pages were filled with overlapping thoughts.

The ink from the pen finally ran dry.

She thought she had nothing more to offer,

nothing more to say.

Her mind was quiet finally, but only for a few days.

A fit of anger burst forth…no, not anger.

Frustration? Not that either. Sadness.

The discontent still echoed in her soul.

She had opened the book to release it, to free it,

to let it find air in hopes it would escape,

in hopes the flames would finally go out.

She thought it was bottled up and suppressed.

Now she feared she was feeding it too much

by opening up the book to start,

realizing the flames instead grew.

It became time to put it these thoughts aside,

before it took over and ruined everything.

She closed the book, admiring the cover.

The smell of the ink on the paper reminded her

of a blueline proof prior to printing,

combined with Obsession on a teenage boy.

Another reminiscent memory.

She wouldn’t destroy it, she couldn’t.

Too much of her heart was trapped inside

with the flames, the creativity, the desire.

But it had started to take over her life.

So, she placed it in a hard-to-reach shelf,

knowing, one day, she may pick it up again.

Until then, other endeavors await.

Thank you to everyone for reading my short stories, prose, and poetry. My posts will be less frequent over the next few weeks, but please continue to check in now and then to see what I’m up to next.

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