I look at the page,
A sadness overwhelms my aching body,
The deep wellspring of creativity has dried,
I no longer feel the raw inspiration that once sustained me.
There’s nothing here,
At least nothing I can turn into words.
My mind is both troubled and still,
Like the silent ease within a ship right before the bow breaks,
Thoughts that could be usable do appear,
Only to float off the moment this blank page appears,
Ideas like dandelions in the wind,
I desperately grasp at them only to catch air,
It’s crippling me as I’m left wondering,
“Why me”,
And in amongst all the cluttered wasted I scream,
“And why now?”