Bloody Turnips

I'm glad there's no such thing as 'Doctors Block' or "Cashiers Block" but why do they get all the easy jobs. You know, and do, the job or you don't. There is not any in-between failure.

Here I am again for the third night straight. Here I stare at a blank white post box. It hungers for me to etch into it with blackness. I turn away from it, striving to glean ambition from anything else in the room. My room disappoints me and I close my eyes to reflect on the things in my psyche.
And there it all is. All the things that I tire of hearing myself say. No less true or heartfelt, just tiring. I bore myself with my 'emo' crap. Poor me. Boo hoo.
I try to beat on the drums to relieve tension. One more creative outlet drained.
I pull out the sketchpad. I need to open it every day and put something in it. It's hungry whiteness mocks me too.
Inspiration and motivation have left me.
Great, I guess something is bothering me... my nails have gotten noticeably shorter, and once again Santa ignored my requests for a workout/exercise bag.
Somehow, I knew this would happen. As with all my creative projects, they burn brightly while my emotions run high. They then fizzle out before completion only to be picked back up days, months, or years later...

I found someone who motivated me.
I want to pursue her.
I can't.

Maybe I'll write some bad poetry to go along with my bad narration.

* * *

Tragic?

There was once a lonely boy,

He found himself a lonely girl,

They became lonely together,

And worshipped death.

After the passing of lonely girl,

Lonely boy didn't want to be lonely,

Lonely boy pleaded for death,

And his mind died.

Lost in the insanity of lonely boy,

Lonely girl begged for forgiveness,

Lonely boy would not hear her,

She was dead.

Lonely boy became dead boy,

He found himself a dead girl,

They were dead together,

And worshipped loneliness.