𝕿𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖓 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍

Write, delete, write, delete.
Start, stop, start, stop.
Try, fail, try, fail.
It’s a cycle just as chronic
as the sickness in my stomach.
The fog gets so thick
I can’t even think at all.
The sentences start,
 then they disappear.
A writer no longer able to write,
a painter no longer able to paint,
a singer no longer able to sing.
The tragic loss of passion
stolen by the endless tired.
Too tired to even mourn or cry.
Chronic might make me a failure.