Sitting and waiting, for creativity to hit me.
Where the hell is it, the inspiration? The calling of the writing style? I used to have it, an idea all the time.
Where is it?
Is it all gone like the life in some old song? Everything seems so lame now, even the thing I’m writing now, this very second seems lame.
My creativity is gone.
Lets throw a funeral for it, because of it, so many great things were made. Send it off with a creative farewell.
The creativity is dying like a rose without water. Its blackening and dying, the petals are shrivelling.
My petals of creativity are shrivelled.