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.
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.