I cannot begin again...

I cannot begin again.
That would mean that I would have to finish something;
a feat I am not willing to conquer.
I don’t do endings and I tend to fumble the beginnings
but my middles will blow your mind…
Like a random dog-eared page in the center of a notebook,
I am of no consequence yet I am chosen;
not for greatness but for composure.
These lonely lines and I await brilliance;
my very own claim to fame…
And here in the stark white,
my pen only halfway writes.
It knows the partial thoughts I scribble
attempt to purify brutal and base desires.
I write in the obscurity of randomness.
I am safe from prying eyes and judging souls.
Here only my pen can judge,
and I can accept that.
I have never fallen in love with a pen…