...I got my writer’s spirit amputated a year back
Doctor Perfectionism said it was a lost cause
Dead weight
Heavy like an anvil resting on my brain
The anvil of the hardy wordsmith I used to be
Nurse Inspiration was the one who removed it
With a scalpel
Sharp like a fox’ teeth plunged in my head
The fox that used to whisper clever plays on words to me
Mortician Motivation buried it deep underground
In a coffin
Shut like the gateway to my mind now is
The gateway that used to unroll a red carpet in front of my feet
For all intents and purposes, it should be gone
I would never write another word
But then what is this feeling?
This itch?
This urge?
Is it phantom pain?
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
...I got my writer’s spirit amputated a year back
Doctor Perfectionism said it was a lost cause
Dead weight
Heavy like an anvil resting on my brain
The anvil of the hardy wordsmith I used to be
Nurse Inspiration was the one who removed it
With a scalpel
Sharp like a fox’ teeth plunged in my head
The fox that used to whisper clever plays on words to me
Mortician Motivation buried it deep underground
In a coffin
Shut like the gateway to my mind now is
The gateway that used to unroll a red carpet in front of my feet
For all intents and purposes, it should be gone
I would never write another word
But then what is this feeling?
This itch?
This urge?
Is it phantom pain?
I was on the brink of giving up writing altogether. Frustration after frustration came and went. I thought my writer's spirit was gone, but it never truly left.
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