Where is my release? Where are the words that always pour so effortlessly from my fingertips through the keyboard and onto my screen? The raw emotion and pain and suffering that I could so easily drain away with a pen? Where is the ink shining on the page, a mirror for the tears shining on my cheeks? I cannot articulate myself. Not even with my third person mask on can I let slip a paragraph, a line, a sentence to calm my screaming heart. Where has my eloquence gone? The sinews of my syntax have snapped and slipped away. I am empty of all creativity; I couldn't conjure a plot device to save my life. Why am I suddenly unable to wrap myself up in my language? To weave an intricate shield of words to protect my fragile mind? There is nothing inside me and it's not the good kind of empty. It's not the satiated emptiness that comes from unleashing my soul upon the page. It's the kind that the needle points to in my car when I have somewhere to be. It's the kind that urges me silently to drive my fist into the wall. There is nothing outside me, no piece to read, no poem or song or story to show for the feelings that consume me. There is nothing inside, there is nothing outside, I am empty and exposed.
My sentence structure is repeating
to the beat my heart is beating
and instead of this retreating
I wish I could be completing
some magic work of fiction
but I seem to have no diction,
my writing's full of friction.