Trapped

You used to come so easy to me,

and now I can hardly get a phrase out.

I string together a few letters

and a gust of wind blows them away

higher than any kite in the sky,

but I can still see it.

I yearn for the writing high,

that ache filled.

I crave the feeling of accomplishment

when finishing a piece

and having nothing left to exhale.

It seems like I can’t even

breathe out anymore

with how much my words are trapped.

And it hurts

me

it hurts

to not be able to write

something so simple

and hugely complex.

I miss it.

I’m trapped:

Ask me to write a scholarship essay,

I’ll have it to you in 20 minutes.

Quiz me on Gutenberg printing press influence on the Protestant Reformation in a short answer essay,

I will provide exquisite details bringing a tear to any teacher’s eye.

For my own pleasure,

write a poem or chapter in my novel.

. . . nothing . . .

If I didn’t know better,

I’d think I have forgotten how.

And the little inspiration

I have had

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