Sitting there, mind empty and dark.
An attic just to store these empty thoughts.
I was full of life, inspiration, motive, intent.
The way I could pour my heart out through paper and pen!
It was my weapon of choice, the thing that gave me my voice.
My imagination running wild, people asking for more, strangers, family and friends.
Why can’t I do this?
In front of the laptop, cursor mockingly blinking.
Write something, write anything, I was constantly thinking
“You’re in love, that’s you’re inspiration.
Write what you know, what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking.”
I’m not pretty enough,
not successful enough, he wants anyone but me.
I hear it in his voice when he says “love you”
forced, repulsed, felt mendacious.
It hurt because I’ve always loved you, even after the 100 times I found out you were untrue
I tried to shake those thoughts, I had writing to do.
But my thoughts we’re consumed by my anti muse.
Stifling the beauty and creativity in me. Trying to warp what I felt, what I see.
I took my time, wrote something sweet, nervous about what you’d think when you’d see. Lol you said. That’s when I knew it was over.
No interest in me, the one that was supposed to be your lover. Leaving me with scars from which I don’t think I’ll recover.
Now I cringe when you touch me under the covers. Self conscious, and disgusted.
My body now feels like a tomb, here lies our baby, and the love that used to bloom.
Now I’m gone, Distraught, I’m a mess.
Calling the suicide hotline At 3 am trying to suppress,
this urge to let my soul fly free, to finally get some rest.
“Journal what you feel, when you get too low” the counselor said.
Now here I am pouring my heart out in this empty bed.
The words flowing like the hot tears running down my cheeks.
My world is collapsing but pain like this is nothing new.
At least I found finally found inspiration in my anti muse.