Lamentations Of A Dejected Writer

Like a glass of warm champagne, my writing seems to have become something that doesn’t deliver what it was intended to.

It is not pleasing to the senses. It doesn’t delight.

It leaves you wanting more. It disappoints.

I used to be able to translate my thoughts into the most appropriate sentences that contained the most pertinent words to express exactly what was on my mind – to hit the nail on head, so to speak – with ease.

But now, not only can I not seem to find the right words, the thoughts themselves seem to collide, seem to find their way into what becomes a tangled mass of confusion that cannot be unravelled.

 

How did this happen, beloved Writing, how did this happen?

Is it because I ignored you for so long?

You, who have always been good to me;

You, who have always given me a platform to express myself, when others wouldn’t,

Or when I couldn’t, via any other medium.  

Did you feel neglected when I allowed other things to take precedence in my life?

Did I take you for granted when I believed I could return to you one day and pick up from where we left off?

Do you feel I have nothing more to offer you?

Nothing worthy of your time?

Did you give me my moment, my time to shine,

And did I, foolishly, let it pass me by?

Is it gone forever?

 

Or do you scorn me, do you mock me, but for a moment,

Just to teach me a lesson?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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