The notebook stares at me.
Tears trickle from my eye.
Depression strikes my brain like a bongo.
Grief shades me, the cloud that it is.
My will is gone.
Passion reduced.
Love almost nonexistent.
The spark fails to flame.
It continues to endeavor.
Desperation grows.
Expression feels lost.
The little voice inside: not good enough to write.
The inner child: still fighting.
Love I once had, growing thin.
Passion working overtime
just to avoid the divorce.
The puddle on my desk grows larger.
Sorrow swells.
When will it end?
When will the pain subside?
I want to feel whole.
Not like paper through the shredder.
Regrets plague my mind.
Free will fading.
I pick up the pen.
Open the door to my brain.
Let out what’s inside.
The ballpoint races.
My brain on hyperdrive,
avoiding another crash.
The brick wall of pain remains.
Can I knock it down today?
Most likely not.
I just want to find that child again.
The one who wants to express,
rather than play.
SLOT 