I once created literary art,
With blood drawn from my broken heart.
The words flowed endlessly,
How could it not?
With an abundance crimson fluid gushing out uncontrollably,
As the cracks in my poor love centre elongated.
Because of this, I was declared a lyricist in her prime.
But I have watched my creativity sublime,
As depression slowly evades me this body that I call mine.
It’s over now.
My heart no longer beats a tune which negativity dances to.
I don’t feel the weight of the world on my shoulders,
I don’t hear the crushing sounds of my hopes and dreams falling apart.
I don’t know what else to write about.