It has been a long time since I wrote any poetry or fiction or anything else from my imagination. I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I hate it. I used to be creative… full of ideas. Now I’m just writing yet another post about how I don’t write anything anymore. It makes me so sad. I don’t fully understand what happened to me. I’m just not there anymore.
I truly believe that I’m finished. And that makes me wonder why I’m here. I don’t think I’m ever going to write anything fictional or poetic again. Nothing decent, at least. I suppose I could force it and come up with something terrible. But I think I’m all dried up. Like a shriveled up leaf… barely hanging on… soon to be blown off the tree… into a pile of others like me… until I turn to dust.
I stole this from a very old post of mine. It’s kind of how I feel lately…
I’m a picket barely hanging onto my rail on an abandoned fence,
Swaying in the wind, waiting for a gust to rip me free…
So I can fall face down into the dirt beneath.
Yeah. That’s me.
©2017 what sandra thinks