ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ᴘᴏᴇᴛʀʏ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ :)

ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ'ꜱ ʙʟᴏᴄᴋ.

The longer I stall my words, the less they seem to make sense.
They're now stripped of their meaning- they matter no more.

I start to wonder, to think, and reconsider their existence,
But no matter how long I ponder about it,
My situation never progresses.

I am stuck in an endless loop of words that are recycled to the point where they no longer make something new.
I am stuck in the same room, imagining the same phrases over and over,
Structuring them in the same exact contexts each time.

My talent has dissipated in the abyss of writer's block:
Lost, abandoned, and bereft of their true color.

When will I find myself again?
When will I find my words, my talent, my meaning, my passion, again?