FREED VERSE

Blotchy lines from a dying pen 
Looping round in letters
Easy to be seen, ill-to-be-read.

Nauseous squints at my script 
Send pangs through my head.
A blank page is the only home 
For all that's unsaid.
Unsaid, unfelt:
Aren't they one and the same?
Putting words to the passion
Serves to fodder its flames.

So scratch on, my pen! 
There's room yet for you here. 
An enchantress for the ages
To make my blank spaces clear.