Life has drained me; the pain is too much
A writer once full of expression has lost her touch

Words cannot flow
Sentences cannot be formed
Emotions do not show
My soul has been transformed

What has caused such sorrow
That the fervent cannot feel
That the writer cannot write
That day appears as night?

Clinging to the words of predecessors
Bringing about a false sense of security
The magic has eluded me
But I am my own oppressor

I tell myself it’s lost
I censor my own heart
Self-devaluation comes at a cost
It keeps out light; it ceases art

No more holding on to words of sages
It’s time to form my own
Time to fill the empty pages
With words from this heart now made of stone