I miss the splatter of ink across a blank sheet of paper,
The rushing feeling I get as my fingers hit each letter
Words turning into phrases trying to court someone’s heart
Revealing parts of myself that to the public I could not
I envy those whose verses flow endlessly through their veins
While I struggle to salvage what little spark that remains
Chasing every moment as if it’s the last one I’ll receive
For writing is the only way I know how to live
The scent of tragedy and romance seeping through my nostrils,
Oh how I miss them, how I miss how they used to make me feel
Desperate for stains of literature to be scattered on my skin
To consume my soul, my heart and every particle of my being
Death would be much kinder than this agony that I’m in
Rejected to be a vessel of words that make the world spin
How do I go on from here not knowing how to continue?
How do I resurrect the writer in me that I once knew?