creativity used to love me. it really did. i used to love creating and making and coming up with ideas and stories and crafting. i used to love writing. god, i used to spend hours and hours on all the hobbies i love.
and now i can't.
responsibilities are crawling towards me as age keeps running to keep up with me. no matter how fast i run, it was bound to run the same speed as me. adulting is gnawing at the cold metal of the prison, wanting to be let out. and i wish i could just run away and leave it all behind and keep the whimsical fireworks and flames in my soul but i just can't. i couldn't.
i just couldn't.
i used to be surrounded with so much words like being trapped inside a whirpool of letters that it made it so easy to write, like picking off a low-hanging fruit from a tree. and now i'm stuck sitting in front of a desk, surrounded by people i work with and work for, desperately trying to claw out of the box and survive for another day.
and i wish i could live a life with nothing but whimsy and doing the things i love, you know? i wish the things i love doing did something back for me other than making me happy, like put food on the table or pay my bills.
i just wish trying to survive didn't slowly drained the whimsy and hobby out of me when it was once what made me who i am.
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letters after dark | poetry book 3
Poetrya collection of poems and proses of thoughts that fill up the void after dark. #1 in proses #7 poetry #56 in poem #5 poetrycollection book 3 of the poetic flowers series. other books : • a hurricane of blues • confessions i will never say and other...
