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36
Student @ Babcock University
The Carcass: The Writer I Once Was
<p>Hello Everyone,</p><p>I came here to write you a story, but sadly, I cannot.</p><p>Trust me, there is plenty to say,</p><p>but no palette to hold my colourful words.</p><p>This is where my story should have begun.</p><p>Delicate words dipped in imagery</p><p>to transform the blank canvas in your mind</p><p>into a story Da Vinci could never illustrate.</p><p>But the brush feels heavier today.</p><p>The colours will not listen.</p><p>Every time I reach for a word,</p><p>it fades into something dull,</p><p>like it is afraid.</p><p>My page stares back at me,</p><p>white, patient, accusing,</p><p>like it knows I have life to give</p><p>and yet somehow I have forgotten how to breathe.</p><p>You see,</p><p>my words no longer sit quietly in my mouth.</p><p>They pace.</p><p>They knock.</p><p>They burn like akara fresh from boiling oil,</p><p>yet I refuse to spit them out.</p><p>So now every sentence looks overcooked,</p><p>every idea smells like fear,</p><p>and all my stories taste like burnt memories.</p><p>Now I delete sentences until there is nothing left of me.</p><p>I doubt metaphors mid-breath,</p><p>each backspace tearing a piece from me.</p><p>I trace lines I wrote yesterday</p><p>and wonder if they ever belonged to me,</p><p>ghosts of sentences I killed too early</p><p>haunting my fingers,</p><p>leaving only the carcass</p><p>of the writer I once was.</p>
The Carcass: The Writer I Once Was
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Laseeee
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