I've got writers block.
I've got a huge *** wall around my heart and mind.
I can't write anymore.
I can't write about the environment around me.
The atmosphere surrounding me.
The pain inside my heart.
I just can't.

It scares me, thinking that I've lost my ability to write.
The craving sensation to feel the texture of the paper.
The way my fingers would curl up and wrap itself seductively around the pen.

It scares me because I feel someone has taken my will to write.
Like they took the biggest part of me and left scrapes and pieces of whatever this is that I am.

I want to run back to poetry, back to art because my reality hurts.
I'm dealing with a broken heart and an unimaginable weight of depression and it hurts.
I try to write about it but the monsters in my head tell me it's no more, that poetry isn't for me.

And that scares me, my one way out isn't a way out anymore.
It's a longing, a dream, a utopia that is no longer existent.

And that pains me.

I've lost my will to write
I've lost the biggest part of me.
What am I if I don't have art to represent my true self?
What am I if my only escape is no longer an option?

Somebody took my will to write.
My will to draw,
My will to create canvases with my mouth.

I don't know but I've lost it all.
God I wish for you back.