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My former fire
Endlessly uninspired even as I listen to her — my muse.
How effortlessly her words string together, like holiday-rainbow lights.
How meager my words feel, mounting in my mind.
I never believed in writer's block before, but here it is.
I write anyway — there's no other option.
Some things have to come out, like she said.
I search for the metaphors, for inspiration, for that something that used to just be.
I never believed in a crisis of confidence, but here it is.
Does it have to rhyme if it has rhythm?
Does it need to be about something lyrical?
Does it need to say something political?
Could someone give me the algorithm?
Maybe if I keep my fingers on the keys, a pen in my hand, a notebook by my bed
my former fire will return.
