If only we could write our way out of this rot,
But words are like tears,
they deceive you when you want them the most.

We could scribble all night,
drawing a billion patterns,
like a somnambulist, walking aimlessly
to find a way out of this nothingness.
But no shape will have any meaning,
not to the world.

Because we have failed ourselves,
For years, poems weaved words
of hunger and naked love,
tales of human plight and pain
but we didn't trust them.

Now even our fingers have betrayed us,
Once in love with papers,
they now lust for the keys.
But the key to the door still eludes us,
perhaps they too are lost in the pages of time.

Now we could make a zillion paper boats,
and wait for the rain,
but not a drop will escape the earth.
Like a stone it will stay frozen.
None of them will ever leave the shore.