As a writer,
You never run out of things to say;
It’s just that sometimes,
You’re too tired to say them,
Because you’re consumed by the mayhem
Of life, compulsories and inconsequentials;
I forgot the quintessentials
That are supposed to give me meaning
And now I’m leaning
Towards extended sadness
And loss of self-worth;
Is it worth
All the emotion I feel?
Can you distinguish between what’s really unimportant
And what’s really at stake?
Because you’re writing because you have things to say,
But you can’t say them,
And you’re inadequately expressing the mayhem,
Worse off than you were before,
And too tired to write any more.