I sit with the pen, but the words won’t flow,
Like a river once raging, now silent and slow.
Pages stare back, empty and bare,
Mocking the echoes that used to be there.
Once, my thoughts would dance on the page,
Wild and untamed, escaping their cage.
Now they stutter, stumble, and fade,
Lost in the fog my own head has made.
Is it the weight of time, heavy and cruel?
Or the fear that my words no longer hold fuel?
Perhaps they still linger, hidden deep within, not gone,
Waiting for courage to bring them back strong.
So I write, though broken, though weak,
Not for perfection, just for the streak.
For even a whisper, a faded old rhyme,
Is proof that my soul still knows how to climb.
The words return, yet they feel untrue,
Like borrowed echoes, like someone I knew
Even though I climb, I try hard each day,
Chasing the echoes that drift far away.
As I reach a point where I once stood tall,
I still don’t feel the same—I feel nothing at all.
Is it boredom, or am I a failure now?
A shadow of words, an unkept vow?
Yet, ink still lingers, waiting to spill,
So I write again, against my own will.