He stares at the blank, white screen.
He thinks.
He feels.
Nothing.
His creativity
Is cut off like…
Like…
Nothing.
His fingers gingerly touch the keyboard
Like a ticking time bomb
He must disarm.
He types.
THE MOST
He erases it.
WOULD L
He erases it.
S
He erases it.
He tries to create.
He feels like a child
Who works with clay
But the clay is dry
And hard.
He paces the room.
He reads other works.
In frustration and confusion
He kicks over his chair.
The tears well up in his eyes.
He tries to hold them back,
But they run down his cheeks like…
Like…
Nothing.
He is like an animal
Locked in its own trap.
He’s…
He’s…
Nothing.
Nothing at all.












Comments
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"I can't control my destiny - I trust my soul - My only goal - Is just to be"
"Can I help you with something?"
"Angels fallen from Heaven have no choice but to become Deamons."
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