it’s been a long time, old pal
does the pen grab your hands with fright?
i used to read your poems and songs
like they were lullabies and holidays,
soothing me to sleep and escaping the days,
have you forgotten how to put pen to paper?
how to make fingers type?
is this what it’s like for all the poets whose words weren’t borne of pain?
thinking too hard on what to write, what to say
if they’re not tears, they don’t flow naturally
these words are hard to create
you’re all out of practice
nothing to compose that feels genuine or profound
are you a liar to yourself? have you lost who you once were?
are you not ready to give up what’s already gone?
maybe you’re not a writer anymore
working 6 for 7 in a bar, big boss boy now
happy but frustrated, making money you have no time to spend
but it gets spent anyway
with no quality time to show for it
and you, lying there, awake
staring at a blank page hoping the words will write themselves
wondering if you’re a failure for moving onto something else
do you even want to write anymore?
or do you just miss the freedom?
Feb 28, 2022
Feb 28, 2022 at 4:02 AM UTC
it’s been a long time, old pal
does the pen grab your hands with fright?
i used to read your poems and songs
like they were lullabies and holidays,
soothing me to sleep and escaping the days,
have you forgotten how to put pen to paper?
how to make fingers type?
is this what it’s like for all the poets whose words weren’t borne of pain?
thinking too hard on what to write, what to say
if they’re not tears, they don’t flow naturally
these words are hard to create
you’re all out of practice
nothing to compose that feels genuine or profound
are you a liar to yourself? have you lost who you once were?
are you not ready to give up what’s already gone?
maybe you’re not a writer anymore
working 6 for 7 in a bar, big boss boy now
happy but frustrated, making money you have no time to spend
but it gets spent anyway
with no quality time to show for it
and you, lying there, awake
staring at a blank page hoping the words will write themselves
wondering if you’re a failure for moving onto something else
do you even want to write anymore?
or do you just miss the freedom?
i feel like i don’t have anything to write about anymore and i think it’s partially because i’m in a better headspace these days and partially because i hardly have any time to myself
i feel like all my poetry was so easy to write and so easy to be heartfelt because i was so depressed
now i want to write and i’m struggling, and i feel like maybe i’m not so creative after all
maybe i was just sad
maybe i’m not a writer anymore
maybe that’s okay but i’m just having a hard
time accepting it
or maybe i am still a writer with an exceptionally long case of writer’s block and no time to work on it
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