A dammed river

Pen to paper, ink on the page
Unable to let flow the words I made
A block, a wall, something in the way makes it feel like these words are fake. My heart, my soul, my self I used to pour in the paper
The lines, the truth printed out in front of their maker, never forced never coerced out of his mind but now those same words I’ve written a thousand times seem hard to find.
Have I drank the well dry? Is it because I’ve gotten too happy to cry or feel empty inside? Is that where my inspiration was derived? Where my true beauty lied with the blood and the tears of countless sleepless nights? That drive, that fire, that reason that I write doesn’t come to me quite as easily anymore. My talent, that life of burning sadness fueled that skill and now that I’ve gotten help it seems like that fire’s been killed and replaced with these thoughts and feelings that eliminate that desire to write. Every word scratched into the wall had meaning, had truth, and these shallow scrapes hold only remnants of that truth still breathing somewhere inside me but unable to speak out and express what it means to be in doubt about life and happiness and safety. How strange, for years I prayed for relief from that disease that made me hollow, that cloud that made tomorrow look dim, but now it feels like without it, I’m emptier than I’ve ever been.