Writer's Block Is More Like Death

Drained of words. The flow has ceased and the imagination is bled dry of originality. I'm left flipping through my past Scratched in ink across these pages. Thoughts long forgotten seemingly infantile, Paling in comparison to anything that's recently infested my mind. I sit in a cold room, locked away from the world Curled in the corner with a pen Stabbing into my skin hoping to grasp some idea of pain To cause a flood as I have times before. Theories I drew up in my rebellious youth circulate in my blood Causing a twisted sense of self-pride feeding my bitterness. My flesh is drained of color, painted with the whites and dusted yellows Of headlights passing through the blinds hanging limp over the window. I burn, burn away into the previous day Where I wasn't dependent on these words that keep me from jumping out of my skin. Sucking on the scents lingering in the air from nightmares to gain some inspiration I find myself dangling on the brink of insanity and mental collapse, Surrendering myself to the fear of another failure. Giving up to the truth that I'm living with the assurance That only cold soil and a glossy maple-wood box wait for me at the end, If I could afford even that.