The words are lodged so far up
that they won’t
It’s drying up.
You’ve been here before,
metaphorically walking in the mental desert
of literary inspiration.
Every time you tell yourself: this is it,
you’ll never reach water,
your thirst will be the death of you.
You start to forget what writing even feels like.
You are wondering, through these cerebral sands,
stumbling over the stray verb or adjective
teasing you of what you used to be.
You resign yourself to never writing again,
you realise: this is truly it,
you’ll have to hide your face from friends,
sit at the back of spoken word shows
and pretend to not know that one guy
who once said you were really talented.
Here lies your creativity,
dead at last and you are the only remnant,
a disgrace of a poet;
‘do you even know what a simile is?’ they’ll jeer at you,
words so harsh they’ll blow you over as they come out.
You give up,
you lie down and accept your fate and
as you close your eyes one last time,
you think you can feel the clouds coming over you
and it starts to rain again.
-A.Webb (first draft)