I feel creatively frustrated. Mentally stagnated, verbally constipated, lyrically unmotivated. My senses are jaded and for far too long now I cant seem to shake it. Unstimulated by the happenings in the world, the madness being debated, Im lacking the passion to get words copulating; forming sentences and ideas, stanzas laced with pronouns and adjectives conjugating. Instead Im listless, adhering to academic and employment obligations – cant they see I just want to write?! Day and night I struggle with the internal fight to leave everything alone and do as I like – but instantly my bohemian fantasies take flight, and Im back to being blanker than the paper before me. This poetically challenged haze Im in has me feeling inebriated - only Im not drunk off ink or high on lines. Im pacing back and forth with cranial thoughts unsigned. I wait patiently for them to come out, a rockstar groupie of my own mind, but true to form they decline. Fleeting anxieties whisper to me that I need to work for mine...somehow this is new news to me. My poetic ecstasy used to come so easily, do it’s thing, then exit the scene gracefully – a beck and call greatness with no signs of vacating. Yet here I am, pen in hand, breathless and waiting. Like a true junkie, I need more from me to take thee to the depths and heights I now have to squint to see. To take me to the top like I plan to be; to make me truly great like the writers now I read. I have to plant that seed. There’s no room to sow a future of immobility. I gotta keep it pushin. Always, always – gotta keep it pushin.
I look down, and I see theres ink dancing on the page. Even when I loose my way, my pen never roams astray...always,always gotta keep it pushin.
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