is, as always, the thing that sucks.
It would be different if I was ultra productive, going through a manic phase and writing my heart out. Instead, I’m just awake.
I’ve started to think that I’ve got very few poems left in me. Times like this when I’m blank as blank will do that.
Of course, I’ll keep writing anyway. Of course, I’ll keep striving to be better at what I do.
But times like this…they hurt.
Dark Matter 