I can feel it in my soul,
a ripple stirring within.
In the deepest crevice,
there's a whisper trying to shout, "It is done!"
So why should I waver?
That storm has passed, and the sea is calm.
I watch the sun descend in a quiet declaration of what’s to come,
its golden light and gentle embers painting promises.

I don't have writer's block,
I just don't write.

If there was ever a block,
It's my blockhead.

So, why am I writing this?
I don't know.
Maybe there is a hole in my block.

Does this mean I can write again?
Maybe something that feels right?
I don't know.

Is there even anything that I know?
I don't know.
Maybe it's that I have writer's block.

I hate people and love them at the same time.
I despise this world but can't seem to come to terms with accepting my hatred for it.

The beauty blinds me, the wonders piques my interest and all the more dragging me down a path  I could never have conjured in my mind.
I don't see a point in anything, yet every little thing holds the most significant factor to make the most mesmerising point.
It's all utterly confusing! With questions bouncing me back and forth until perhaps, I reach old age.

The question of life is simply a question to carry me forth.
A question with no answer, yet with every imaginable result and answers.
If spewing crap means the temporary answer to life, then I guess I'll stick to my ****.