There isn't a word for the numbness that has infiltrated my soul.
I could write for a million years and still never convey my thoughts.  
When I first started writing redemption and purification was my goal.
Instead I've realized that the softening I feel is my spirit as it slowly rots.

I have little left to offer that seems original or genuinely mine.
The light bulb rattles and remains ingloriously dark as I cry out for inspiration.
My mind churns with regurgitated thoughts as my creativity has gone blind.
There's physical pain running through my circuits as I deal with my consternation.

Self loathing and sadistic degradation have replaced the path of light.
The voices must be real and telling the truth as I would never lead myself astray.
Now is the time to forget about writing and drift off into the wilderness of night.
I'll close my eyes like a child of four and whisper for salvation as I hopelessly pray.