I Used to Be A Writer

I used to be a writer

Once upon a time…

I used to spin a story

Line for every line

There used to be a fire

Deep inside my soul

That drove my pen on paper

Pushing to a goal

Now I sit and ponder

Where those days have gone

I wonder where that writer is

What did I do wrong?

Where is the wandering mind?

Where are the endless dreams?

The questions have all quieted

But is it as it seems?

Does the writer ever die?

If it lives inside your soul?

Can you rekindle that emotion

Like flame when given coal?

Is just a sharp poke needed

To spur the sleeping beast?

Do you wait for it to happen

Or egg it on at least?

I used to be a writer

And perhaps I still am

Waiting for some inspiration

Something to say I can