#burnedoutwriter

there I was standing in a coffee shop

waiting my turn in line

when

suddenly I turned around and

your eyes were staring into mine

what's been going on lately?

i wanna hear everything.

what've you been doing to pass the days?

i'm running out of ways,

ways to pass the time we used to spend

talking or laughing or

just sitting quietly in each other's presence.

i saw something the other day

that i know would make you laugh.

i almost took a picture to send to you

before i remembered where we were at.

everywhere i go i see a memory of us,

us at the park,

us at the store,

even us at my front door.

and now it's just me,

and i'm trying to let go.

just me and your freedom,

The satisfaction that comes from writing is the feeling of completion within yourself. A beautiful piece of art that you conceived in your mind and released into the world. Something you are happy to call your own because it was of your own volition, with your own style, and in your own time.

I scarcely know what to write about these days. No time for stories, short or long. No brain power either. I am currently unable to build characters and worlds like I used to, my creativity being used up by demanding schoolwork.

Not enough thoughts for poems either. I have plenty that I have yet to share with anyone, but I no longer have any inspiration for new pieces. Is it the schoolwork as well? My brain feels like it is barely functioning, simply going through the motions and barely surviving all the work that is being asked of it. There is no space for the work it wants to do.

So I have resorted to “train of consciousness” writings. These peepholes into my inner thoughts that provide no story, no moral, no clever wordplay or beautiful metaphoric language. Just. My thoughts.

I should be writing my paper for class right now. But I’m so bored of analyzing literature. I wish to be creating literature. Creating my own narratives rather than trying to decode someone else’s.

I do blame school for my current lack of creative flow. My brain has been on the logical setting for far too long. I’m losing my sense of wonder, the sense of carefreeness and lightness that is necessary for a writer.

How do I express the overwhelming regret

That fills my heart and mind

Every time I think about how I hurt them?

“You’re not really sorry,

Otherwise you wouldn’t say it so many times.”

But I am

I truly am

I mean it every time

I apologize.

I know nothing else I say can make it better,

And knowing that hurts even more.

So this is my pathetic attempt to prove to you

That I didn’t mean it

That I still care

That I’m hoping you know this one incident doesn’t change the fact

That I’m still there.

And I hope you will be too.

I hope you remember all the other good times we’ve had together

Doesn’t that prove our bond enough?

Must I still walk on eggshells around you

Constantly evaluating my words and predicting the effect they might have on you,

Praying that the next thing that comes out of my mouth doesn’t drive you away?

I know you’ve been hurt

I know you withdraw to protect yourself from any more hurt.

And god dammit I try so hard not to be the next source of that hurt

Because I know your trust is a delicate thing

And I value it so much

I feel so honored that you have chosen to offer what little vulnerability you’re capable of

To me.

Anyway the whole point of this is to let you know

That I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,

None of us are.

I know we might inadvertently hurt each other in the future

But that’s just what happens.

We make mistakes.

I don’t mean it.

You don’t mean it.

We know.