remember when i was young and full of passion?
i would write my worlds down, record them with ink and graphite to make them a little more real.
on paper i'd preserve the fantasies, or whatever whirled in my head.
now here i am lying in bed,
looking to the plaster on the ceiling for inspiration
because i cannot conjure creativity on my own anymore.
my confidence is nowhere to be found, my motivation elsewhere
i have been robbed by my own body.
i only write when i'm sad.
that's my observation anyway.
it is only when my body crashes and burns that pen and paper beckon me to the desk.
those words deliver only thorns and fake pity differing from the felicity and glee in my previous works.
did i stumble into a pit without a way out?
did my passion have an expiration date?
did confidence take a vacation? if so, when does it come back?
did motivation get lost playing hide and seek?
did i grow up?