Writer of some sorts
Been so long since I wrote
I’ve been so uninspired
The pain of life took away my …
Although the pain is usually what made me write, no, inspired my writing.
Not that I’m a writer of some sorts really.
Nonetheless I wrote.
but haven’t for a while
I have plenty to say but it seems to be locked up somewhere I can’t get to.
It’s like it’s at the grasp of my fingertips- [pretty sure I’ve used that phrase wrongly]
Nevertheless, it’s like it’s at the grasp of my fingertips
But the words seem miles away, eons even, from my grasp
So I therefore know not what it is I want to say
My mind is as a blank can vas
A black blank canvas
Were it white, I could possibly splatter color s over it, color s that would be very clearly and distinctly seen.
But as a black canvas it makes little difference
it all blends in together
Life is. ..
I have a problem
I have many problems
But I recently found out these problems are or may be but subset s of a/the major problem
The knowing has led me to a state of numbness of understanding
I understand what it means-My feelings, the lack thereof or just…
well it Finally make some sense.
Understanding is finally found upon me
Yet I’m in a state of numbness of understanding
I have nothing to say
Or maybe it’s that I have no one to say it to
Or that I don’t want to say anything anymore
Because I once said a lot
With all my heart
But my heart no longer rhythms away as it once did
So I can’t or won’t say anymore
Not to anyone
not even to myself
A child said that’s not living.
But well that’s life. ..Or something
I miss writing,
not that I was ever a writer of some sorts.
simpletons of complex thinking, of complicated and unknown thoughts
oh to be a child once more