Here I sit,
Rooted to a chair,
Drinking myself dry,
With my curly hair
Here I sit,
With wine in a hand,
And pen in the other,
Every breath a sigh,
Every limb out of joint,
Lost in a red sea of self-pity
As my eyes stare down at the pages I seem to lose all creativity. I cannot continue despite how much I exert myself. The experience is painful, like I’m cutting myself from fear that filling the blank before me will lead to a disastrous result. But still I stare in hope, I must. I have no other choice, though, secretely, I relish the struggle. If its what it takes, I will will cut myself, and colour my blank world to the tint of red.
