yabs

My thoughts fail me
I stare into this blank paper
Gripping my pen

Forcibly thinking
Of what words to use
Of what phrases follow

Squeezing every ounce
Picking on every bit
Of this insufficient inspiration

Realizing that the anger
The bottomless depression
The intense stir of emotions

All of these,
That have provided me
With fuel... Have vanished

My former pain
Is pale compared to the relief
I now feel

Although my bitterness
Has become a smile
And my angst - now peace

Sadly as a result, all I have
Are pathetic attempts
At expressive eloquence

Unable to use any other fuel
Other than blood from my heart
Mixed with sweat and tears

Oh I rejoice and feel woe
For my muse has died
Along with my bravado

Where shall I find inspiration?
When all I can use is pain
The writer in me begs...

Would you come and break my heart?