Memoirs of a Poet

I cannot write because I do not believe in myself

I cannot draw because I have nothing to draw

And here I am bereft of life, meaning, and talent

For no inspiration comes to me anymore

No ideas, sparks, or motivation

Breaks through my stilted mind

My flat, blank box—locked on all sides

To think is to function, but then,

How can I function if my head is empty?

I am just a confused mind desiring freedom, creativity

Hoping that something would come to my name

But once again, I always return to where I started

At a loss for words and shoved aside

I learned long ago that

Once you impersonate someone else, you start to lose yourself in the process,

Even if I do not know who I am anymore

The days and nights fade away, and yet nothing changes

Who is to say I am existing at all?

I am but an empty glass shell,

Breakable and scatterable

My pieces held together only by my fragile earnest for a soul