It’s at these times that baring the attribute of creative is a burden of the heart. It wears on my soul to the point of personal failure and eventually the parent of my inspiration love is lost to fear and I am left incomplete and my emotions go stale from a lack of oxygen. My words are suffocating. They can not breathe in my mind just stagnant without definition. I look for the inspiration that drives me and she is lost in the calm of my days, the laziness of my thoughts. Crying out I feel me burning to just bleed one line of prose that is beautiful and feeling, yet nothing comes to the mound. Nothing picks up the bat. So here I sit. Waiting for myself to arrive.