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@ OTI
2025-05-18 23:33:20
Am I the only one who tires of this pen’s endless fight, Scribbling words that dance in the dimmest light? The ink flows free, but my mind’s in a plight, I still don’t get it, this craft’s strange height. My thoughts once soared, a creative kite, Now they stumble, lost in the night. The page stares back, so blank, so white, I still don’t get it, where’s my insight? I chase the muse with all my might, But she’s a ghost, just out of sight. My fingers cramp, my soul takes flight, I still don’t get it, this endless write. The stories beg to be shaped just right, Yet boredom creeps, a thief in flight. I dream of tales that spark delight, I still don’t get it, this weary blight. Friends say, “Your words, they shine so bright,” But I feel trapped in this daily rite. The passion fades, no end in sight, I still don’t get it, this draining fight. A poem, a prose, I try to ignite, Each line a chore, a forced invite. The joy’s gone cold, no warmth in sight, I still don’t get it, this fading light. Am I alone, or do others unite, In feeling this pull, this tired dislike? The keyboard clacks, the thoughts take flight, I still don’t get it, this writer’s spite. Perhaps it’s me, my heart’s too tight, Or maybe writing’s a cruel delight. I’ll push on through, with grit and bite, I still don’t get it, but I’ll rewrite. So here I sit, in day or night, Pouring my soul, though it feels trite. Am I the only one? I seek the sight, I still don’t get it—yet still, I write.