Writer’s block?
More like an attempt at recovery.
My self-inficted wounds ooze ink.
Or whatever programming goes behind computer type.
When the world is an ocean crashing against your shoulders
Shed the weight in every word you create.
If pain created beautiful poetry
I would gladly let go of these words and embrace a happier reality.
There are writers who create words in celebration of this universe
Then there are us, mad women, creating words to simply enable us to survive.
In this universe.
Maybe when I see the light, I will draw instead.
And the ink of my past will fade away.
Just as my romantic self would say
Instead of deleting words on Microsoft Word as a happier, more rational me would dare to say.
And I would finally be okay.
The Weird Kid Who Is Not A Kid 