Writer’s Block

Where is my passion?

I used to write as if

I breathed poetry

but now it seems

I have smothered

the very thing that

made me feel alive.

Now I cry quietly;

the words to my tears

fall in withered silence.

The inkwells

of inspiration

have since dried up.

I can’t imagine

life anymore

without the flow;

I need a muse

to voice the sobs

of a broken heart.  

But is there anything

left to say that

I haven’t said before

countless times

in different ways?

Oh that I could

find the words

to make this wound

stop bleeding,

to fill this hole

in my heart.

Where is my passion?

Buried deep

with all my hope.

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