I've written a million words in my day, and I cherish each verse and every page.
But when I am stricken with a block from my work, I feel inadequate to what I am worth.
When the ink doesn't flow and I've lost all my strive, I know that I'm living but not quite alive.
See my writting occurs when I'm sad mad or glad, and for every bump in the road there's a poem I have.
So what's been the change that occurred in me? I dont understand... My whole life's poetry.
And the only thing I can write about now is how I've been blocked from my poetic vow.
So from now on I promise myself that I'll write. About word less days and/or reckless nights.
No matter the subject, I really don't care. But loosing my passion is a loss I can't bare.