…Whittle…
The pencil of my mind.
The writer of my thoughts.
My story.
No lead.
No hope.
Where is my sharpener?
The dark, the light, the deep, the shallow.
Melting.
Merging.
Missing?
The writer of my feelings.
Gone is it too?
No longer available are the thoughts written by my mind.
My story stunted.
Halted.
Hopes of the mind can't materialise while my pencil lay still.
Lay still from brokenness.
Brokenness from pressure.
Pressure from my strengths aimed at the wrong place.
Pressure bred for elsewhere.
To create from friction,
alas!
Friction unaltered birthing destruction.
Destroying hope.
Lackluster.
No fighting the internal struggles by writing new conquests.
Use the remains? Or...
Hunt.
Delve.
Pull apart the world for the blade.
Cut through walls and wood.
Carve.
Grind.
Whittle.
Find the center in me.
Fight.
Sharpen my mind.
Take back hope.
Be.
Me.
Again.
Keep writing my story.