22 crumpled whites.

Have you ever nibbled at the tip of your pencil?
Scribbling something on the white sheet of paper,
And then rolling it in a ball and tossing it on the floor because it was too facile.
Her room was filled with crumpled balls of whites,
She had been tossing them around since dawn,
Losing count after crumpling the 21st paper, she was now playing with her fairy lights.
Sanguine this moment and gloomy the next;
She was pretty much used to incoherence in her thoughts,
Ruminating over all of them at once however, was putting her patience at test.
Of the 20 papers, all of them hurled at the feet of her bed;
One of them was an attempt to put a date into words,
And another was to thank him for the message for it was the sweetest thing one could have said.
She vaguely remembered having written a few words about her mother;
And about her new friend, for whom writing was a reflex,
And probably about the trees, wanting to play with her as she sat in her balcony, admiring the weather.
About to heave the 22nd paper ball over her head;
She noticed something very strange had happened,
The 21 pieces of waste were no longer spread all over but curled up in a corner of her room instead.
It was as if they were talking to each other;
Leaning a bit closer she heard the colons and braces coming together,
They were celebrating something – it didn’t require a great insight to know that they were mocking her.
The letters coalesced into sentences long and short;
“Writer’s block maybe,” one of them read,
She added the 22nd guest to their little party with such a force that it caused their little parody to abort.
A few things were set into perspective now, while a few were not;
The black of her pencil flowed across the sheet so white,
The 23rd guest wasn’t invited to the 22’s merriment – probably because it had less of semicolons and more of dots.