Spoiler! :
This poem has been edited since the first couple of reviews.
Sitting at my laptop
with eyes staring
at my pile of abandoned stories,
wondering why writing
was once my only love
but is now my passionate hate.
I used to write so freely
with paper and with love,
painting a picture with words,
and rambling on about anything that came to mind
but now writing is such a chore to me,
and nothing makes me feel the same.
I write half a story,
and work on half a poem
but soon my eyes grow weary,
my fingers brush over the delete button
and that piece I spent forever on
is nothing now, to no one.
It's not a bloody battle
or even a merciless war
but the words all chocked up inside me
give me the tendency to scream
and get all frustrated
over something I should be able to do with ease.
I guess all I'm able to do is sit here
at my laptop, like I've done many nights before.
And stare at my abandoned stories,
wondering why writing was once my only love
and is now my passionate hate.
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