I'm feeling it again.
My mind on overdrive
my eyes struggling to stay open
as my fingers search for more beyond
the letters of the keyboard.
There's not even a glimmer of hope
a spark of idea
a sense of accomplishment.
It's been days
but the pent up emotions building up
in my tightening stomach
just don't have the energy to
burst out and create meaning.
I don't understand how I'm writing this
maybe it's the frustration of not writing
the desperate need to share my thoughts
the pressure of creating content
or maybe it's something else.
Since when has writing become content?
That's where I'm going wrong.
I wrote about this before
but it seems like a fading memory
a meaningless cluster of words.
YOU ARE READING
Midnight Garden of Words
ŞiirIn a world surrounded by darkness lies a wondrous place where all it takes is one look a few steps before you're lost dancing under the twenty-six stars known as letters shining bright over the midnight garden of words.
