so where has all that energy gone now?
all that, which once lived inside me,
and now has left me a hollow husk
with an aching soul.
my hands reach for it,
but it slips from my grasp once again,
and i can feel the tears begin to wet my cheeks;
they pour from eyes which can no longer see.
i am hardwired to create;
my very blood is rich with the need,
and yet i just sit here,
broken.
who has done this to me?
or what?
and why?
cruelty beyond words, i can't describe it—
because the metaphors won't come,
and they are the only language i know.
should it worry me so much?
this fear grips me—
what if i've lost it?
'it', 'it'; so vague, but i know what i mean:
that spark that drove me onward,
my imagination,
and all that makes me whole.
(made, i correct myself.
i am no longer whole.)
i need to create to breathe, but
the scent of that destructive smoke
is seeping through the cracks again,
choking and consuming and suffocating
all that i am, and all that i know,
and all that keeps me sane
and alive.
without it, what am i?
i don't know if i'm anything without it.
i think i'd rather die than live without it.
if i've lost it forever, let this be the end of forever.
if i can't create, i must destroy.
·𖥸·
i don't normally put author's notes on poems but i feel like i need to with this one. my creative energy is drained, and i feel so lost without it. it's so fucking petty i know but it's just everything, and i mean everything, about who i am. i think it's exams doing it to me, and after the catastrophe that was my english literature exam, i can't bear the thought of three more weeks of them. at the same time, i hope it's exams doing it to me; that means this feeling won't last forever, and come the summer holidays i can relax and create again. i feel so empty and drained without it, like i've lost the capacity to think or feel or exist properly. i sit and try to write, or draw, or do anything, but my brain refuses to cooperate and i end up with nothing. it's so incredibly frustrating and saddening, and this poem is sort of an ode to that. it's not a good poem, i'm aware of that, but that's all part of it. if i can't write something good, i need to at least write something, laying down how i'm feeling. and then in the future when i feel differently (which i pray to god i will), i can look back and see it for what it was. temporary. and it will help. i hope.
