Why Does My Pen Betray Me

Why does my pen betray me?

Why does it never allow me to write?

Inspiration lately is all locked up, I have no key.

Inspiration lately is always just out of sight.

I want to be a writer, to bleed from my soul,

I want to use words to bring things to light.

But how can I accomplish this goal,

When my mind goes blank every fucking time I try to write?

Am I the one to blame?

Is all of this my fault?

Has it all been a game?

Is that why inspiration has come to a halt?

Why do my dreams feel so empty, so hollow?

Why do my passions feel so dead, so distant?

My dreams and passions I know I want to follow,

But opposing forces are always so persistent.

These opposing forces always attack me,

Leaving me beaten and bruised.

They rob me of eyesight; I can no longer see

My dreams or passions; I grow confused.

Is this what I’m here for?

To daily enter into battle against my own mind?

Or am I made for something more?

Was it for a bigger purpose I was designed?

Perhaps the daily struggle is just part of it,

Part of the call to write, to cultivate change.

One thing I know is I’ll never be able to quit,

This life was not given to me to exchange.

So yes, my pen betrays me,

The ink inside always dry.

The pen it must be,

For if not the pen, then it is I.