April Rough Drafts


I’d usually find words to write,
no matter how beautiful the world gets.
but for some reason, I couldn’t.

There was no more music in my poems,
no more terrors in my horrors,
no more sorrows in my tragedies,
and no more love in my romances.

Then I choked at the thought
of them calling me a writer.
even the beach called me a loser,
and I undoubtedly believed it.

With a hole in my spirit,
and smoke covering my heart,
the fire in the pit faded into a small flame,
and I watched it turn into ashes.

That’s when I realized―
my soul was paralyzed.

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