I can't seem to write a whole sentence without having my inspiration run out
Is it because I'm no longer desperate ? That I hold no more sorrow for it to be written about ?
Such feeling is splendid albeit it's not enough to feed my hunger for expressing
Deep down I know I want to get it out , but such feeling is unmatched.

It isn't heavy on my chest , rather on my mind
I feel so imperfectly fine it's almost unreal
But I'm almost there I'm aware , I must keep going
I can clearly see the distance I have left to walk
There where at the end lies an enchanting garden
For if I am blinded by the darkness of this none ending hallway I still follow the light

Is this enough to prove that I'm hopeless?
As hopeless as a bird waiting to be fed when it's mother's body cruely laying before it's eyes
I might be so starry eyed That I became blind
Until then I'll keep my eyes open.

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