To Write or Not...

With a purpose to write
I took up my pen,
To write of things beautiful and romantic
Of things happy and wondrous
And the paper would not fill.
To look for poetry in the mundane
A challenge.
I looked around for inspiration
Running into nothingness.
And then I looked within
At memory and experience.
The writer in me realised
There were things dark and grim
In the crevices of my mind...
Pain and anguish,
Confusion.
Denial.
And yet...
Hope.
And so I wrote of things I knew
Personal and yet universal...
Then flowed the words out of my pen
And then lay my pen to rest.