Itís like you have a blank page and a pen but canít think of the words. Youíre on stage in front of everyone and you canít remember the lyrics. Itís even worse when everyone else is laughing, because you are the punch line.
Writers block is a hard thing to overcome when you have so many other things flying around your brain as if they were bugs to a street lamp. There are so many things that need to be said, but as if I was a lion, my courage has left me with a deathly thirst. The words that sooth my soul are being swept away with the wind in the desert, leaving me with an empty bottle, not a drop left inside.
When do things begin to change? Do they just ease in as the seasons? Or do you have to plant tiny seeds and nurture them as Mother Nature would, and hope for a rose garden? Since when was one person meant to solve a Labyrinth and get out alive? But I guess thatís the point, no one gets out alive.
You see, this is how life was meant to be. This poem isnít supposed to rhyme, or have a count. Itís free. All good things in life are wild and free. You have to learn to cope with the wild part of life, and decide if the daisy is a weed, or if its beauty is disguised by that name. Even though at first glance, that weed looks like a flower.
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