My writing.

I am lost.  I am done for.  I cannot find words.  It is a constipated effort.  I sit and think of what I’d like to write and nothing comes.  I am blank.  I go about my daily routine, which in the past has given me potent insights to put to words.  Again I am blank.  I spoke to some one, who I love and respect.  I thought I could bring my writing “closer to home.”  I am stalled.  No words will come.  I am shut down.  I am terrified.  What if I cannot write?  What will I do when no more words, with their beauty and passion, burst forth from my soul have no where to go?  My chest heaves with a heaviness even I can’t explain except to say my words have no place to go.  I am so broken in time.

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