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 breathe
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.