I thought this day would never come.

No prophetic thought to fill the page,

No deep metaphor to eloquently express.

My words are simplistic,

Train of thought is brief.

All that is left is dumbly spoken grief.

My story has no wonder,

I cannot capture their attention any longer,

With the wonders that I once spoke and

And all the vibrancy I once wrote.

It’s gone.

I thought this day would never come.

The pen is placed down,

The keyboard left alone.

For the first time,

My mind is blank.

I beg myself for a piece of what I once was.

Is it trapped or simply gone?

I thought this day would never come,

The day I am drained of my stories,

And left with pain,

The day that one great sentence is an awful strain,

The day that I can no longer name myself,

As one who can write.

I’ve got not another story in me.

I’ve lost the fight.