I fear that one day, I will run out of words.
I fear that there will come a time
when every word I speak, write or think falls flat and bland.
That the meaning will be stripped,
and all intentions will be rendered dull after years of use.
My writings and work will be repetitive, a pointless task… a fading chant.
The cycle continues, with no way of slowing.
I drag my feet, digging them into the earth,
but still it moves. My heels are so ******, and my blisters are festering.
My fear is already growing so large,
that even before half of my life has gone,
my words have already begun to run out.
How am I fading so quickly?
How long until I vanish completely?
Will any part of me remain?
With everything I have barely done.
I’m beg, beg, begging you. Please.
I need my words to linger, just a little longer.