No Words

The words aren’t coming.

My mind feels hazy.

I’m stuck on a phrase.

I feel like I’m going through a maze.

I can’t force creativity.

I wish that I could

but most of the time it’s understood.

Proclivity.

The doubt starts streaming in.

Why do I write? I’m not any good.

Why do I write? It’s not understood.

Where’s my pen?

I choose to write to discourage my enemies.

I take fire daily from what I’ve done.

If you hand me a gun I won’t shoot myself

but I’ll shoot the demon that likes to live on my shelf.

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