It’s like someone’s turned a tap off in my brain

The stream that once fed my well of creativity

Has long since dried up

Not even a drop remains at the foot of the well

Just soft mud and debris

And the stale smell of stagnant ideas

I try to toss in some seeds

In the hope they take

Growing into something

But only weeds can survive down there

In the dark and empty depths

I long for an image to form

One I can mould into words

One of love, of passion

Or fury and wrath

An explosion of emotion

Or a fit of frustration

But the well has run dry

And the drought in my mind goes on



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