Even now I inwardly hate myself for sharing this with others, knowing that I am not satisfied with the second line of the first paragraph. I don't want to have write anymore.
I can't write anymore.
I can write, but it seems that anything I write is not satisfactory to my perfectionist eye.
That word isn't just right, that analogy isn't perfect.
Why does everything have to feel just right to be beautiful.
Something leaves me tapping on the keys of my computer.
A rabid panic from deep within my throat, rising up like a silent scream.
There is so much within me, but nothing will come out.
I try to write, I really do.
But all that comes out is gibberish, a mere shadow of what I struggle to say.
My deepest emotions hold captive the words that would set me free.
There isn't a perfect enough word to describe how I feel.
Where are the words for all the pain I see in my world, the feeling of getting into bed after a tiring day, the rush of emotions that washes over me as I talk to him.
My descriptions sound empty compared to what I see and feel.
I feel a tiny prisoner inside of my heart, banging against the walls to be set free.
And I have tried, over and over again to set her free.
But all that escapes are feeble excuses for "literature".
My pen has turned against me, the paper lies blank.
The tongue that I once would use to describe lavish stories has fallen dead.
I am everything, but can speak of nothing.
I need to write to release myself from this prison, but cannot.
I grow angry with my own imperfection, so I refuse to write.
I don't write, therefore I remain a prisoner chained to my own soul.
I don't want to have to write anymore.