I was told in a dream that “the best ideas
Come to us when we need them most.”
If that’s the case then why is my mind, once a hub
Of inspiration and imagination, dulled down to
Nothing?
I have to force the words out of my finger tips,
Find a meaning in the fruitless venture of
Scribbling every thought that comes to mind before
It clogs up the gears. Sticky notes of all shapes,
Colors, and sizes cover the blue cinder block
Wall in front of me as a desperate cry for
Something to make sense. Anything.
“Read more – that’s what you need to do.”
Books cover every empty shelf and space in
My bedroom. One day, I will read them all, but
For now I lie on the once white carpet and stare
At the towering shelves to see what I could’ve become
Had I worked as hard as I told myself I would.
Every day is a fight with my mind, over the same grueling
Topics that I should be able to defend.
“You were so confident before.”
It’s hard to feel the same way now as each click of the keys
Is a reminder to the times that it wasn’t painful
To brainstorm what to write.
“What happened to you?”
I don’t know. Next question.
“You are a quitter.”
That’s when it’s suddenly four hours later and my stomach
Cries for the candy locked away in the cabinet. It happens more
Often than I’d like to admit – skipping time as a way to separate
Myself from Her.
She braids my hair as I sleep at night. With each pull, I feel
Desperate for relief. When I wake up, She is not there to give
Me the pain killers that would fix it all. They are hidden from me,
And I have to go to sleep with the headache I never asked
For.
Part of me thinks that She took my creativity when coming into
My life. Picking at it slowly like the leftovers in the fridge that
Dad wanted to eat but I couldn’t stop myself from trying. She likes
My mom more than me – They locked the candy in the cabinet,
with the key just out of reach next to the book I told myself
I would publish before 25.
I’ve been told that I’m blaming Her for my problems – that I
Need to face them head on and get out of my own head.
But that’s where I need to be. Sometimes, it’s the safest place
That I can find. It holds memories, secrets, and the surrealist
Reality I want to call my own. She likes it that way.
Maybe one day the vault will open and I will walk out
To the unknown. But I don’t know when that will happen,
Or if it ever will.
I continue to take the pills morning and night. One day, She will
Be gone, and I will be back.
Free from the chains.
Free to be creative again.
readplaywright 