I want to write
But I don’t have the words
So I watch the ink seep silently
I know you’re thinking I’m absurd
So many empty notebooks
To fill with small little doodles & swirls
Intimidated by the stark whiteness
I don’t know how to create lasting worlds
Pondering & delving into thought
Present in my feelings with offerings to burn
Slowly churning my fickle imagination
In the hopes a bit of creativity might return
I’m tired of being so dry
In need of an outlet to release my brain
Creativity gone; leaving me stagnant
Building into a wreck of anxiety & pain
My thoughts stunted by vapid feelings
Finding myself too tense, filled with stress
Needing to drink from restorative waters
Like those I found under her dress
Poets, artists & mischievous folk
Proclamations & unsorted semi-true theories
Stories of unfounded revolutions
Their propaganda always makes me a little leery
Taking creativity as an undisciplined religion
Allowing me to remain high on dopamine
Though I’ve never been one for public consumption
Hiding behind my words; staying forever unseen
Image by Karolina Grabowska from Pixabay
Hiding discarded notes in a shoebox
A back-catalog of creativity to mend
Offering our souls to be consumed
& an apology if we might offend
Captain Q 