I miss being able to write.
I miss the warmth that comes from
the creative juices
running through my body
as the keys click under my fingertips.
I force my mind to take a turn,
but the barricades send me on a detour
sending me on a ride full of reflection-
navigating a minefield
I've already been through.
Monochromatic and dusty;
I play in the silence
revel in the isolation
until I trip over a trigger
that brings on en emotional explosion.
THIS is why I stopped writing.
Opening a door to a funhouse
is how I enter a mindspace
of the cliched darkness and anger
I live my life trying to escape from.
viewing myself as a monster
A warped image of me.
Fighting for self love
while trying to flee the images
too afraid to look at myself too closely.