I used to write like rain, all flowing and dripping and chaos in a few simple strokes... Now I feel like it's slowed to a mist. I can't write but I can think and it flows around me, just moving breathing life.
I feel crazy because I think poetry.
I breathe it in the morning when I trip down the stairs to school, and I exhale it as I slip away into shallow dreams in the birth of daybreak when I finally get some sleep.
I can't write anymore though,
it's like choking and coughing up bile and leaning against the cold tile, still feeling nauseous.
it hurts to have lost something so dear to me, a pain so acute and clear that i can see it through blurred vision and the pain of losing you,
a muse of some sorts.
was art really just love all along?
Author notes
I can't write worth much anymore... I'm going to start trying to post again.
Everything goes back to the start...
Comments
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this is me
it awful isn't it ?
i think in poetry all day long
but when i pick up a pen - nothing
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