I haven't written in quite some time, but here's my attempt at dipping my feet back in ig
Sort of a poem, but not really. :/
Why is it, I suddenly feel compelled to create something? And yet, there's a block. A twisting, coiling smoke in my mind that prevents it. Words do not wrap around my pen as I write, nor through my hands as my fingers grace the keyboard, they are now clunky and roughened. Dull around the once acute edges, like a sword cleaved in half. Sitting densely, trite with rust. Overused, unmended, then unused and atrophied. And I sit. And I shatter, not like glass, slowly. Like a burning tree, and the ashen bark flakes off, burnt, lacking density. Adrift on the wind, at the command of every stray beeze. And smoking, that stump. Polluting the air, but dead in itself. Alive, but dead. Soon to be gone. Vital enough to feel pain. Vital enough to percieve the agony. Clinging to that feeling, for what but that is left? What but the fragments, glittering. It glitters compared to what else is there. It glitters, even if dully, in the fire's wake. And that is all...