You know that it is bad,

When the thing you love becomes a chore.

You know it’s bad,

When your passion becomes poor.

It feels like your well has gone dry,

and all that you can produce is a lie.

No charming metaphors,

Or silly rhymes,

Can bring back your passion.

It is gone for good.

The thing that used to come so easy,

The crutch you used to hold

It’s rare now.

Rarer than gold.

I thought I knew what to do.

I thought this was my calling.

Every time I look at a blank page,

It is like I have frozen on a stage.

Everyone’s eyes were on me

and I forgot my lines.

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