When you have not written for years, there is a silence that eats through your pen like a cancer works its evil through flesh. Willfully totally destroying beautiful thoughts before their birth.
How can this silence be so violent? the blood red turns to pale bleak grey and the rushing sounds of thoughts collide against the dull ache of NOTHING. There is a war inside of me. Everything is dead.
I am empty. void. a poet without words. a writer without ink. Gridlocked in a fucking impasse. Staring at the world through my rearview.
What happened? All of the promise that yesterday held, now...
Some people are afraid of spiders. rats. dogs. clowns. I am fucking terrified, petrified of failures. I dont look in the mirror anymore.
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