I sit down to write
Create beautiful prose
It’s been so long
Yet my mind goes blank
Where is my heart?
Where is my brain?
Where are my words?
There’s no passionate emotion to draw from
No inspiration
I wish my tears could fuel pieces of art
But I don’t even cry
I wish my pain could catalyze my creativity
But that pain is so repressed
This lack of feeling suits me well most times
My personality is made of jokes
My heart is bulletproof
But in poetry
There’s no inspiration