Dryness

It is one in the morning, and I am writing to you briefly before continuing a project which has to be completed tomorrow. I just wanted to share with you a very, very short piece of poetry I wrote a moment ago.

Earlier this evening I sat down to work on my project, and I felt a deep dryness within me. I could not seem to call forth words to meet my emotions; in fact, I could seem only to conjure bland and facile words to meet lukewarm sentiments. I felt as if I was trying to draw from a heart that was empty of anything noble. To console myself, I tried freewriting for a moment or two. The poem I am about to share is the very condensed version of the paragraph I produced.

                                                      I have been staring at this page and

                                                      Staring at this page and

                                                      Still I am a firecracker that

                                                      Promises bright lights of

                                                      Brilliant colours but

                                                      Fizzles out in a

                                                      Pathetic cough of

                                                      Smoke.