I’m not myself when I’m writing yet I’m lost when I do.
I know myself and the reasons I reason with, nevertheless I’m yet to find myself as a writer.
My muse was life and now seems to be something even more ethereal.
The words used to pour out of my fingers like a waterfall when I knew nothing of all this called content creation. Now everything seems to need a purpose. Oh, when it was nothing but inspiration and love for the art.
Not worrying about being read, no editing to improve readability nor understanding; nothing but your thoughts creating lyrics in digital paper.
The good old times.
Yet here I am. Editing this for readability and comprehension . . .