Jan 2014
The words don't fall anymore
The thoughts have iced like a cold November night
The limericks tell me they miss me
My writing could do with a sweater-
I've stunted my mind.
Some call it writer's block
But the truth is I've just realised-
that there's no point in writing more lies.
Because what are you even supposed to do
When you realise that the best fiction you've ever written is you?
The thoughts have iced like a cold November night
The limericks tell me they miss me
My writing could do with a sweater-
I've stunted my mind.
Some call it writer's block
But the truth is I've just realised-
that there's no point in writing more lies.
Because what are you even supposed to do
When you realise that the best fiction you've ever written is you?
It's the middle of the night and existential crises seem only fitting. I had always wanted to figure out why I had stopped writing before (before I resumed lately again). And this seemed like the only explanation.
