I wish I was a writer, I really do.
But the story escapes me, out of my hands
All I can feel is this melancholy lump
It’s growing inside, blocking all creativity.
My mind goes numb as my fingers forget
How to type, hands forgetting the hold of a pen.
A sleepy haze roles over me, just as I sit,
Ready to release a budding story inside of me.
It all sounds wrong, words can’t shape
the images in my head, can’t contextualize
Different concepts from within.
And the longer I sit, the more words
I try to form, the story leaks, it oozes
out of my soul, evaporating before I can catch
Even a drop, a simple word in my diary.
Journals stack up pages with pages all empty.
The fire I once felt for the written word, turns to apathy.
I have no stories to tell, not anymore,
as this melancholia seeps into every pore.
It is all that I am, all that I know.
It pulls me down, begging for sleep,
Begging to not feel anything.
Every creative cell has stopped growing,
Slowly dying as this lackluster grey blankets everything.
All I can feel now, is a deep loss, as if I’ve lost
Everyone single person I love, I’m in mourning
At a funeral, that only exists inside of me.
As I forget how to sleep when it’s really needed,
But stuck in nightmares once I finally cede to it.
More dreams go to waste, as my creative endeavours,
They get locked away. I can’t find a way out,
Find the right tool to dig out hope.
My treasure trove of wonder and curiosity,
It’s lost forever, nowhere to be seen.
I wish I was a writer, with endless stories to share.
I wish I was a writer with creativity to spare.
Instead the only thing flowing from my fingertips,
Is the very despair I am trying to be rid.
Instead all I can share, all I can spread
Is this melancholy feeling inside my head.