I Can't See The Forrest For All These Trees

I'm trapped inside my head. My recovery has tidied my creativity into a corner somewhere and I don't know how to get to it. I need some drama to function. I dislike being this way. There is no bubbling urge to purge words on to paper. Thoughts are fleeting or can only be orally realised. Paper is my enemy and typing holds no relief.

To consort with my nemesis, littering the surface with my marionette fingers, shadowing the crisp, white sheet with my black poison is painful. Hurtful. A betrayal.

But, I need to. See how I'm starting to flow? Pen to paper, fingers to buttons, create. For fuck sake, just create!

The pressure is too magnanimous, I just stop. I cry. I grieve. I lose.

Just write. Words will find their way out, like water, this black ink is like water.

And water always creates a path.