Words come to my mind but I
don’t
record them, I
don’t
write them down;
I’m sick.
I’m sick and
tired,
worn down and
uninspired.
I’m simply
too sad to write.
But sometimes I have to
forget my self and
throw away my
self-pity.
I’m a
word forger first,
mentally ill second.

And still, I have
no motivation.
I need a
new muse, my
old one is just that:
old.
My
suffering is not
important enough for me to go on
pitying and
pining and
perishing.
But I’m scared.

What happens when I
throw that away?
Will the
poetry stop?
Will the
words stop
appearing in my mind?
I can see them;
I can see the
letters and the
spaces and the
lines.
They materialize in my
subconscious,
push their way to my
full attention.
They fit together like
puzzle pieces, the
beautiful, perfect letters organizing into these
amazing words, allowing me to
bend them and
shape them to my will.
I can’t risk losing that;
I love it to much.

So what will happen once I’ve found a
new muse?
Will it be
different?
Will I have to
make the words myself, instead of my
subconscious giving them to me like
perfect little gifts?
I couldn’t do that;
I’m not creative enough.
I’m not
good enough at this art to
be able to do that.

I don’t
want to change.
I don’t
want to find anything new.
I don’t
want to lose this amazing little thing that I
found in me, the
one thing I know I’m
TRUELY good at.
I don’t want to lose the
only thing that keeps me sane.