I sit here every evening
every night
Nothing comes to mind
No muse in sight
I have an ache inside
I can't describe
I type a few lines
Words won't rhyme
Failing each time
The sting inside
A low lit flame
Dwindling down to nothing
Why can't I find
What's burning inside
And type it all out
Confusing doubt
Not even sure what it's about
The words pour down the sink
Draining to never be seen
I'm stuck in between
The chaos unheard
And losing myself
Placing my unfinished words
Back on their shelf
Recently I've felt my passion dwindle.
I love writing, and maybe criticism is too much to ask for. I shouldn't need it. One single word can extinguish the flame I hold. Sadly.