a poem

The cursor blinks repeatedly,
Incessantly, without remorse-
Even when I blink,
I cannot escape it:
My inability of expression,
Being robbed of my cathartic duty.
The page is untitled, blank-
Deprived of a name, an identity;
A facet that mirrors many of our lives.
Surroundings are silent,
My mind is not.
What I want is:
to type pages till my fingers go numb
to write on sewn pages
until my hands
are drenched
with ink,
But nothing comes out.
I feel like a young child,
A child that has just tumbled into the world
on my 2 steady feet,
So much to say
But unknown to the language.
I wonder,
Will the words ever come out?