I am a writer without inspiration, still striving to let the words flow free. I am dammed and damned by my inability to find the right sentences to express myself.
I am a writer with no paper. I have no pen and my soul cannot run away with itself. A moon without a cow, a spoon without a fork. More cats than fiddles, and a dog with no laugh.
I am a writer who cannot write. Stones have been carefully placed across my river and the water is pooling around my ankles. I’m drowning in a tiny torrent of unsaid things.
I am a writer struck dumb by the weight of the world. I am arched and aching, unable to hold my position. I am drowning, sinking, dying. I am flattened.
I cannot breathe anymore.
I am a writer and my hands have fallen silent, unable to sustain the pressure. It’s too hot. I got out of the kitchen, because the cooks, the broth, the deafening silence inside my own head.
I am a writer who is not writing and while I understand suffering for my art, this is a hefty price to pay. My teeth are being pulled, my eyes are held wide open.
I am a writer and I am forcing this out, one stupid letter at a time.