At a loss with my words, a creative graveyard I dig through every night until my own thoughts are a trashed lullaby putting me to sleep in a puddle of broken beliefs. My hands come up dirty from scrummaging through piece after piece, moment after moment, to weave words into something like this, yet come up empty. Dust coats my finger tips from the places I’ve touched, the people I’ve held and hugged and I pick at it hoping something is worthy of words. And still the smell of dying hope stings through the ghastly absence of ideas, crawling into my bloodstream with coercing ideas of failure. “I’m a writer”, I tell myself, begging the creative mastermind asleep in the pockets of my heart to start feeling again. To start moving my fingers along the keyboard with a raging urgency to bleed meaning and masterpieces. But, he sleeps on and the only one left to write this is me. The aspiring writer who tosses the ideas of loneliness and solitude around like a feather weight of literature, but it needs to be so much more. The daydreaming writer who can’t weave the loom of love through a keyboard or can’t twist her tears into a poem as they melt like candle wax down her skin. So many moments and pieces, all painful and magnificent but not a single string of a story can be pulled. So as this speck of dust, unburied from the graveyard of lost time, now takes a turn of hopeless creativity, the aspiring writer describes the freedom that falls from the weepers of the sky like a frozen moment in time. A moment she wished could last forever, so she pulled it out of the graveyard, dusted its surface and sat its polished mess before her…she wrote:
Nothing. Only words lost in the white spaces of this paper. Lost in the mind of someone who wishes for something that only comes around when the storm of clouds rain down upon her insides. Washing away the dirt and the dust from those memories.
