Sometimes I feel like I am going to explode with the strength of the stories trapped inside me.
Lately I feel like I am empty and I have nothing left to give.
Inspiration still reaches me,
but it is locked away inside my heart.
I have a million things to write about,
but no idea how to start.
I can put my pen to paper,
lay my fingers on the keys.
I can force words to form,
but any reader would feel my unease.
Forced poems and stories
have no rhythm and no rhyme.
I would be writing words
that have no soul, a literary crime.
So I'll sit and wait for the words to come,
and hope that I wont wait long.
My blog has earned some tumble weeds,
this all just feels so wrong.