I sit here alone holding a dying pen — nearly void of ink. I’ve been searching persistently for a blank sheet of paper to write down my thoughts. The last page, I filled with my deepest secrets and darkest emotions. I polluted its lines with anger and spiteful thoughts. Before I knew it, the entire page was black. Not one word legible. Not one word it’s own. I cluttered the page with so much emotion and fear, I had no space left to write down what was important. I ruined a perfectly good sheet of paper — forever darkened by the black ink of my pen. All that time and effort put in to something and I have nothing to show for it in the end. So I continue to search for a paper or pad. Something to write on. And now that my pen’s almost dried up, I’ll be careful not to make the same mistake twice.