The words still live inside me,
I know they do.
I can feel them scratching at my ribs
like trapped birds,
desperate to be let out.
But every time I open the document,
the page stares back empty,
and suddenly every idea feels dull
before it even exists.
I used to write until 3 a.m.,
fingers aching,
thoughts pouring faster than I could catch them.
Stories felt alive back then.
Characters breathed beside me.
Now the cursor just blinks
like it’s waiting for someone
who never showed up.
I miss the version of me
who could turn pain into poetry,
who could build entire worlds
from a single sentence.
Now everything feels unfinished.
Half-written lines.
Abandoned chapters.
Titles without stories beneath them.
And maybe the worst part is
the ideas are still there.
I still imagine scenes in my head
while trying to fall asleep.
I still hear dialogue in passing conversations.
I still feel entire stories
sitting heavy in my chest.
I just don’t know
how to reach them anymore.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 7:45 PM UTC
The words still live inside me,
I know they do.
I can feel them scratching at my ribs
like trapped birds,
desperate to be let out.
But every time I open the document,
the page stares back empty,
and suddenly every idea feels dull
before it even exists.
I used to write until 3 a.m.,
fingers aching,
thoughts pouring faster than I could catch them.
Stories felt alive back then.
Characters breathed beside me.
Now the cursor just blinks
like it’s waiting for someone
who never showed up.
I miss the version of me
who could turn pain into poetry,
who could build entire worlds
from a single sentence.
Now everything feels unfinished.
Half-written lines.
Abandoned chapters.
Titles without stories beneath them.
And maybe the worst part is
the ideas are still there.
I still imagine scenes in my head
while trying to fall asleep.
I still hear dialogue in passing conversations.
I still feel entire stories
sitting heavy in my chest.
I just don’t know
how to reach them anymore.
I used to love writing, what happened?
