as i lay in bed,
tired from jet lag,
i think of why i can’t write.
do you see what i did there?
in case you didn’t know,
i don’t usually rhyme.
my words and thoughts don’t mesh,
but are a humble and jumble of chaos that is in my head.
i try to write, to explain, to entertain the ideas that float within me.
but they all end up being senseless, surface level, meaningless shit.
sorry if that was abrupt, but i’m just being real.
the first person i have to be honest with is myself.
confront the fears that reside inside of me.
if not the fears, then turn over the rock of resilience as ask it why.
why writers block isn’t just a cute idea in the movies.
why it crept up slowly, took my inspiration one day at a time, and quietly let my imagination fade.
why couldn’t you have just ripped it out of me fast, like a mom takes a bandaid off of their child, or a nurse administers a vaccine?
God, why won’t you let me write?
I want to fill these pages with my innermost thoughts and demons,
playing connect the dots in my head trying to make something out of this havoc.
trying to turn my feelings into thoughts, my thoughts into words, and my words into actions, hoping that one day, this will all make sense.
somehow, my life has turned out to be a big, gigantic, beautiful mess.