Do you know what scares me?
Not having a story to tell.
I’m scared that I’ll run out of ideas
I’m scared to be the well that went dry
That writer that gave up
That girl with nothing to say
Who am I, if not a writer?
If you took away my poetry
I’m not sure what would be left
I don’t want to talk about the weather
Don’t want to write about heartbreak anymore
Reading beautiful stories
The sad, the bad, the good
But inspiration, while plentiful
Refuses to leave my pen
Writing and rewriting simple lines
I can’t get a grip
I’m losing it
But I can’t be the pen that ran out of ink
I was born to be a waterhole of words
And this drought can’t claim me
The odds are low
But I will cling to the earth
You won’t lose me yet
But be warned;
My light is fading
So don’t be surprised
If it goes out.
~ Bluebell Rizzi