When words fail me, I feel like i've failed, too. I cannot express something in a way that makes people feel something. Art is supposed to make you FEEL something. Yet I haven't been able to evoke a single emotion from any random passerby for days now. I am a starving artist in the sense that I'm trying to spill the ideas i've been fed into the white canvases that line my desktop.
I'm a starving artist in the middle of a creative drought. I'm a starving artist because I'm cramming endless lines of inspiration down my throat, but nothing comes out of it. My mind remains malnourished, and my entirety is aching with emptiness. What have I done wrong? Have I run out of emotion to express via words? Am I no longer granted with the gift of language? Writers block shall be the death of me, for if words shall be taken from me, I beg that you take my life. What is a poet without a verse and stanza? What is an author with no leather bound book to tell a story to? What am I without these awful, beautiful, tortuous, glorious words? I am nothing.
I have so long been deprived of expression.
⎯⎯ "Writer's block."
YOU ARE READING
In Bruises We Bloom
PoetryPoetry by me. Even though they say that time heals all wounds, the scars are still fucking there. I can't forget what happened, I can't forget how I felt.
