Awakening

They say a writer who waits for the ideal conditions to work
dies without putting a word on paper
There is something dying everyday inside of me
Because I can’t stop the clock to write these ideas
like a blight to me.

My soul is seared
Can’t fix my life
like I fixate on words
craving a fix of paper and pen
Ten months since I’ve bled a poem.

Writing is the only true home
sinking with the rest of the world
need to forget society.                                                                                                                                      

I know I’ve disappointed that part of me
for having not achieved what she yearned
for me to achieve
Yet still I know there is an older, wiser me
anticipating for me to change my indolent
course of action
stuck in a timeless mirror contraption.

Break her out
the only weapons are my words
So write for her
Because my heart cannot conceive to deceive my own again. 

-S.K.

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