I ponder to myself...

mehhhh!

 

Why can't I write anymore?

What is all my thinking for?

When the words used to spring naturally from my fingers,

Now it's so hard, even though I listen to so many great singers...

Maybe it's broken, that writer inside is gone,

I really hope not,

Cause it was my best friend for so long,

My outlet for emotion,

My one and open ocean,

The thing that let me be me,

The thing that often set many dark thoughts free.

I've become so drowned in the words of others,

I no longer find myself able to write about great lovers,

All I hear is music in my head,

It makes me worry that the voice of my writer is dead,

Maybe she's just sleeping,

Taking a break from all her word reaping,

I need an inspiration,

Something to stop the building anticipation,

The need to write is becoming strong,

But why write when the words may end up all wrong...?

 

 

 

Author's Note

-shrugs- I like to complain...anyone want to help me find the writer in me again?