He sits wide-eyed, staring at an unmarked page

Tapping his pen on the table, adrift in thought

Confined by his unoriginal ideas.

Words fly through his mind like pigeons

"It feels too familiar," he whispers reflectively

He pauses noticing the silence of his surroundings

Putting his pen at the ready,

A dot of ink forms a perfect circle on the page

He begins to write,

A broken home, divorce, suicide, financial defeat

All pour out of him like boiling water into a fragile cup

He glances up at the ceiling, noticing the stains left from smoke

Looking back down, he witnesses that the only thing he was able to accomplish was a lonely dot on a blank page

All his thoughts and emotions; unoriginal

Longing to create something new, something different

"Why bother writing if it's already been done?"

He sits wide-eyed, staring at an unmarked page