Grasping at straws, trying to make the words work. But they don't work. They are dried up and lost to the wind. I look back on the previous words said in hopes of a bit of stimulus, but come up empty. The river bed, once teaming with life, is now found full of decay. The words that need to be there find their way through, but those words I wish to fill my cup with have since vanished.
It's my own fault. I wrote too many words without planning on what to do when they began to run out, and instead of stopping, they were pulled up from the greater depths and left my emotions raw, damaged, and unwilling to give anything new. Not everything that comes out of these fingers is through hours read, but instead lives lead.
And while I am one who can spin something out of nothing, sometimes there is just nothing.
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Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash