The gears in my mind that used to wind and turn so fast, are slowing. The ideas that never become words, die off. The tick-tick-ticking of pestering thoughts give up. And urge me to give up as well.
Why can't I process this train of endless emotions that long to
become stories? There once was a place in my mind that filled and
toppled over with wonderful ideas. But that place is now empty,
full of cobwebs and dust. Lost, buried deep inside me.
  How can I find it again? That place I'd go when the world shut me
  out and I just needed to express how I felt.
   I miss the days I'd feel lonely, and escape to the world of wonder
   I'd get lost in. The words, the powerful language... And I'd create
   something spectacular.
    But that gift was taken from me, ripped from my heart leaving an
    empty feeling in my chest.
     My power of writing unique ideas is gone.
      How do I get it back? Can I?
      I'm too weak. I can't search for those ideas. I'll never find them
      again.
      I let those brilliant thoughts slip from my grasp. They drifted
      away, soon to wither to dust.
     I am incapable of writing. Incapable of thinking. Incapable of
     loving what I write.
     So I may be unable to find those old words, but I can create new
     ones. It'll take effort, it'll take time. It'll take practice.
    But I am willing, to get my thoughts whirling again. To take an
    emotion, put it into words, and form those words into something
    beautiful. I'll sort my language for only the best, the most poetic.
   My feelings in the writing will swirl up from the pages and enter
   your mind and make you think, Wow... Who wrote this?
  But I am incapable of such a gift... I always have been.
So I'll drown in the dread I've made for myself. I'll swallow the
water of hopelessness as I sink deeper and deeper and deeper... I'm
incapable.
But at least I could make a poem out of it.