I'm wracking my brain trying to fill up a page The only thing that calms me down is now making me insane
So I read a bit more; I go out and explore. Inspirational sensations is what I yearn for.
But all I find, all I see: People who write better, who think better than me.
Why'd I become a poet... Or whatever you'd call this? I see why writers become reclusive alcoholics.
So, I'm sleeping for hours and procrastinating for days. Six months and counting, nothing worthy has come my way.
Like how hard is a poem, a song, or a rhyme? I have it in my bones, I do it all the... frequently.
Never ending anxiousness, I feel I'm going to explode. I know what I want to say, but I can't seem to get the words to flow.
Like my own fingers are holding my throat Or like grabbing frantically in hopes of gripping clouds of smoke.
So what do you do when you are stagnant in your craft? Writer's block can be lifelong, and that's a terrifying fact.
For the only thing you want to do but ultimately can't? Heartbreaking and confusing; this is why artists go on rants.
So, perhaps I'll pull a Gershwin and lock myself inside. Pick a topic; there are many! Anything! WRITE!
Love or life or death or sex or God and why we all exist. Something, anything, if you have it, I'll take it.
Cause I ain't got shit.