I scratch my head once more, As I continue to stare at the blank pages that now mock me.

My fingers ache to write something, anything of substance.

How can I call myself a writer when I can’t even write a simple sentence.

The words a jumble of chaos in my mind race by as if to say “you can’t catch me!”

Confusion sets in and the question arises in my mind yet again, am I on the cusp of madness, or am I on the cusp of greatness?

Is this the calm before the storm of words that fly through my fingertips, or is this simply it.

My pen flies and I look down to see nonsensical garbage after each stroke.

My rituals no longer work, my brain is cloudy. “What is wrong with me?” I silently scream at the empty page.

Is this just a roadblock before the greatness hits or is this my decent into madness.



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