I sit here every evening every night Nothing comes to mind No muse in sight I have an ache inside I can't describe I type a few lines Words won't rhyme Failing each time The sting inside A low lit flame Dwindling down to nothing Why can't I find What's burning inside And type it all out Confusing doubt Not even sure what it's about The words pour down the sink Draining to never be seen I'm stuck in between The chaos unheard And losing myself Placing my unfinished words Back on their shelf
Recently I've felt my passion dwindle. I love writing, and maybe criticism is too much to ask for. I shouldn't need it. One single word can extinguish the flame I hold. Sadly.