The Write Stuff
Sipping warm honeyed tea she rubs her temple. As if this motion will stimulate a cascade of prose.
Her penchant for sharpened pencils, and fresh journals is evident as she stares out at tinged leaves plastered on the rain soaked ground.
Lately word production has slowed… crisp blank pages beg for attention, yet her mind is an empty vessel of doubt.
Not long ago words danced from her pencil unassisted. Energized she shared, created and bloomed. Seduced by the way words fit together, expressing emotional upheaval or twinkling bliss.
Supportive of those who share in her craft, she enthusiastically hands out her poems… later finding them ignored and crumpled in trash cans.
Basic acknowledgement — always out of reach for indeterminate reasons, she finds herself the monkey in the middle.
Her inner voice… her inspiration… quieted by external forces.
Breathing in the steam from her cup, she examines her reflection in the window and again wonders …
Why do I write?
Despite her best efforts — she is met with silence.
In response to Christina Ward 👻POMprompt #2.