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 aΒ fit of frustration

But the well has run dry

And the drought in my mind goes on



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