The echo of cars scream as they pass by. A dog barks solely into the dark trees of woe. The writer types a shit storm of garbage that would later kill more of the passion she so desperately desires. The world, loud and danger is separated from the writer by thin walls. She cries, wishing the skill of writing would bless her once more. But it won't. She sits -dying inside. Wishing that her words wouldn't be complete trash. Her chest tightens as the fear of staying in this constant loop of emptiness and self-doubt corrupts her mind.
What if there's no escape from the mess? She thinks. Her fingers rush across the keyboard as the dread sets in. What if my writing never improves? What if all I'll ever have is a stack of half-completed books, and broken dreams? The tears pool at the bottom of her eyes as the screaming of the cars outside become more violent from their speed. What if all my efforts and dreams are that of a foolish man who will never amount to anything? "Am I just wasting my time?" She shouts, begging for relieve from the endless flood of thoughts that only have the intent of suffocating her.
And just like that, the writer's day is ruined.
How? How can something that once brought only happiness by the bane of her existence? What if she never crawls out of this slump? Will she wilt and dissolve into a world of deaden hearts? Or will something -a miracle- reach into the oceans of despair and save the writer from drowning in her of self-deprecation?
YOU ARE READING
Practice
PoetryI've been writing little paragraphs for practice, and I need some where to part them so I can show myself that I have been getting better. And then I thought: "Why not publish them?" There's no guarantee that these will be any good. (Or that updates...
