Writing

It used to fall out of me; I couldn't hold each word in.
Now they're slipping away from me, I am grasping the air and trying to pull them back.
I am forcing them onto pages and pushing them out into the open.
The writing has stopped coming fluidly. It has stopped showing up in my head.
I feel pressured to write because that's what I've been known for my whole life.
But it's just not in me anymore. I just can't spit anything onto the paper that is worth even reading. Every poem ending up crinkled into a ball and missing the trashcan. Every story put into spam after the first reading.

I feel useless. Like the one thing precious to me and worth being known for is gone. I am selfish; I'm not going to pretend. I have a need to be special. But I don't think I deserve getting my heart taken away. The writing was the only way I've ever expressed things. But it's just not possible anymore. I am sorely disappointed. Because the words have stopped seeping through the corners.

The oasis has disappeared.