My ink has stopped dry

The words no longer flow

From my mind to the page

There isn’t much I’ve learned in my age

I cannot write

For the Waiting

The mailman stopped by

Dropping no letters of mine

You’d think someone would write

But none, to my lack of delight

I cannot converse

For the Waiting

My pet dog would cry

Annoy or wake me up

Sometimes late on nights

Howling at passing car lights

I cannot rest

For the Waiting

The Waiting crept in

A prison escapee

Holding me hostage with a knife

Until I allowed it a home in my life

I could not be free

For the waiting was there.