All my life I’ve seen poetry as a way to spell out the dark and twisted reality.
I could never really write any thing that was “happy”
All dull and gloomy was my expertise.

When they’d ask me to write about something as simple as the sun.
Others would take it as a metaphor for good times, you know how the light washes away the pain, and all that stuff.

Then there would be me and I would step up on that stage, saying how the heat had burnt my skin, boiling my blood making my weakness cave in on me.

The light, oh the light had blinded me throwing me into a fit of unwanted emotions, they would swarm under my gaze.
I would see myself as hollow, yet still my figure would absorb no light.
At this point happy was just not expected of me. They’d all just given up on me.

And these days inspiration is running dry, I don’t know what to say, I have nothing to write. And believe me I want to, I want put everything I have into it, I want them to feel something, anything at all. But it just isn’t working, is this what having writers block is like?

I wouldn’t know that, it’s always been easy for me. Writing, all I had to do was think, whether it was a memory I brought back or something I made up, it would flow from my finger tips smoothly landing on the paper as if it belonged there. But now it’s just empty. And I’m afraid, what if there’s nothing left to say. Is this the end?

I know what I need, but I don’t know how I’ll get there. So that’s kinda it for now. I’m lost and I need to get out there and do something with my life, I need to stop swimming around in this pool of sadness I’ve thrown myself into. But it’s almost easy to just sit here in a corner and watch the world spin, people will pass me by and I’ll be stuck. Why doesn’t the thought of remaining in a hole dug by my own hands scare me?-H

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