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.