I used to draw all the time as a kid
until the world fell apart
and I didn’t know how to pick up a pen
that’s what depression is
it’s a losing of self
a shedding of skin
a falling apart from deep within
and sometimes you do pick up the pen
put it on paper,
holding it still
but it does not move
because there’s nothing worth
drawing in the world anymore
no beauty left to imitate
no wonder left to create
no imagination left to dream
just a blank sheet
a mirror of sorts,
staring right back at you
so yes
sometimes id rather not know
how to pick up a pen
than to pick it up and find
there’s no talent left within
because my soul
has no color,
no spark,
no idea left to say
other than goodbye
I really can’t do it today
About the Creator
ASHER
Writer, poet, dreamer, all around mess.
This is for you, the fellow humans who call themselves baggage & broken edges, and for those who dare to love them.
The Singer So Shy
She stood near the cold fireplace, watching the second-hand tick down to the hour. In another minute, the clock's bird would emerge and warble the hour. She reached up and touched the clock, tracing the gentle slope of the farmhouse roof, then trailing down the lilac strewn side, to the white fence framed dooryard. She wished she was there, where the air would smell of lilacs rather than smoke.
By Judah LoVato5 days ago in Fiction
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