the air I breathe is full of naked moments left behind in a fire,
charred, the journals of my once inspired mind fell to dust
now more of a nuisance
a nagging tug at my inability to create magic
it falls around and lingers on every breath
choking the whispers of my forgotten intuitive prose.
the neglect I feel from myself is glaring
to offer myself upon the letters that produce words,
which build lines,
that create pieces of me
is no longer a part of the air I breathe.
the science of my charm sits un-soothed, blistered and raw
the urge ever present, but the flow never expressed
defeat collects in the absence of encouragement
it pools and assembles war against the pen
using insecure tactics and bindings that pinch your nerve to try anyway.
I yearn for the community that previously made me whole
full of likeminded artists who filled the air I breathed with vibrant colors and imaginative rhythm
sated my lungs with purpose that bled to my fingers
instinctually possessed with the need to release and engrave my emotion on the page
but not today
not in this fade that has become my insipid existence
starved for oxygen
greedy for a view outside myself to rejuvenate this stale air I breathe.
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