Is my creativity endless

How much more can I write
How many stories do I have left in these fingers
How many words can I still twist to my needs
How many more letters is my pen willing to give me
How eloquent is my insanity willing to participate in a game we’ve played so routinely
How dark is the perpetual once you’ve extracted pieces and shone light upon it
Puzzles crumble if a single fragment is missing from it
What if my creativity is limited to a complete me
Or even worse what if it happens to depend on an incomplete me
I’m afraid of the writer in me
That little voice that could go hoarse if it talks too much
The throat constantly under pressure could be crushed
The alphabet twists in front of eyes diluted with pain
I have ink stained fingertips that hide behind my name
I’m lost in a personality in search of an identity
Struggling with life as my enemy
Steady losing as life tries to get to the writer in me
His murderous intent clear for all to see
Yet no hands are reached out for my pen
No calls are made perhaps they are hoping I win
But my mind whispers the opposite
They want me to lose want me to quit
Wish to see the bloody corpse of my creativity sleeping in a dark alley littered with garbage
I wish no I hope my writer comes from a strong lineage
But my pens ancestors were created by a pencil
I feel lost in a stream of words no writer should ever see
My heart misses not skips a beat when I think about running on empty
I have nothing other than being a writer a wordsmith
This is an anxiety I’ve come to live with
Boast about an endless pit of inspiration
But the lining consists of bricks made with bluffs
There is no mask strong enough there is no facade that tough
I feel lost … And I hope words can bring me back
I hope experiences will fill the gaps I lack
I want to forever be me
A struggling poet brimming with honesty


Sometimes you could feel as  if the thing you’re doing depends on the things you have. And what if the thing you have, is something based on a pool that depletes over time. And that is how I came to fear my own creativity, and how that’s I got to the question Is my creativity endless. I’m certain that the question Is my creativity endless is one, a lot of artists ask themselves. Because whether or not the answer to Is my creativity endless directly effects what you either earn or create. So Is my creativity endless is a question that keeps pacing in the back of my mind.

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