Journal of a Failed Reporter

My head's a futile room
Full of crumpled paper
Scattered all across the floor.
I've derived theories
And struck them off,
Helplessly staring at the closed door.

It's the place
Where evidence
Became coincidence.
I titrated my emotions,
Controlled their responses,
Yet I'm blue.

The tip of my nib
Fights a battle every day
With the white paper
So that I feel less pain.
Yet each scratch aches.
They show me the mirror -
I'm standing with a funny, red nose
And a smile that I drew with my lipstick.

The room is futile indeed.
Ink almost gone,
Few pages left,
Yet the conclusion is as far as dawn.

My face is covered with my hands.
I used to dream with eyes shut
Back in the days.
Now nightmares crawl by
And I see them with my open eyes.
I do not wish to see,
But I'm not allowed to wish.

It's been long
Since I felt how it feels
To touch the dew
On fresh grass,
And feel nothing else afterwards.

Peace. Love. Happiness.
Just arrays of letters,
written and struck off
In a futile room
Full of crumpled, useless papers
And me.