I miss my words as they were.
I miss that fever, that stomach rush when a phrase launches me into a poet trance or a prose-hole.
I miss the story idea, the conjuring and calling forth of characters living and breathing and growing inside me.
I miss my inability to shut up in the swamp of misery or obsessive lust.
I miss those who inspires the best in me.
I miss focused me, creative me, tortured artist me.
Content squashes passion.
Loss of hope helps you become stagnant and I’ve always said unrequited love and misery is my muse fire.