Riverbed
scratching in the dirt in hopes of striking inspiration
Ramming my head against the wall,
Waiting for a wordy rain.
I haven't picked up a pen in weeks
My creativity has been slain.
\
My mind's as dry as a desert,
Parched as a crusty riverbed.
I scroll in pursuit of dopamine,
Chasing light to fill my head .
\
Why can't I write?
I feel so defeated.
Every time that I try,
Things are left half-completed
\
I see the scatter of corpses
Of stories I've started,
I shove them all in a drawer,
Feeling dead and cold-hearted.
\
So I'm stuck in this desert,
On this dry, souless plain,
Waiting for inspiration
To flow once again.
About the Creator
M. A. Mehan
"It simply isn't an adventure worth telling if there aren't any dragons." ~ J. R. R. Tolkien
storyteller // vampire // arizona desert rat
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More stories from M. A. Mehan and writers in Poets and other communities.
A Love Forboding
The chipped stone slope caused unbearable footing. I slid, skirting on my heels. I cast my shield, relinquishing my guard to stay upright. Left with my double-edge and a prayer to the maker, I skated toward my objective. The earthly stubble gave way to solid ground. I found myself restored, a trail of dust in my wake.
By James U. Rizzi5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
You’ll find it. Don’t put pressure on yourself—it happens to everyone ♥️