I am lost. She is lost

Writers block is creating a black cloud in my brain

And my fingers can't seem to think freely like they used to

My writing is my livelihood but I haven't had a time to

Introduce my poetry to the new me

She used to write from the abyss of emptiness she felt

A place so dark, darkness itself doesn't dare go in

And it's not like that place is gone

It's not like she could tell her new self to forget and reconstruct

Because from that place, she was born

She lifted herself from the ashes of the paper she burnt

Because she didn't deem it good enough

Because she didn't deem herself good enough

But her self-esteem only lifted her to the point of living

But never feeling alive

So she would spill her guts on the paper

Her beating heart dripped of red ink

And for those few pages, she was alive

But that part of her has slowly whittled

She tries to enjoy the little things now

To make an effort to go out with friends and leave the house

However, the constant moving and refusal to go back

Has left her in an empty abyss within her own writing

A place so empty of words that the silence is deafening

I am happy. She is complicated