DIARY OF A FALLEN WRITER.

Though blood is still streaming in motion,boiling in my veins,urging this youthful body on,am afraid my spirit is under the attack of fatal infections;loss of vibrance,inspiration,zeal for life and severe lack of appetite for adventure!      

Fall has engulfed,barely sipped my summer cocktail.Am clouded by fog,i see neither light nor an end to this tunnel.
The beats are loud and clear within my soul,but i have lost rhythm.Forgotten are the moves,i keep stepping on my toes.

My heart and mind are frozen in time,am a breathing shell,a faint soundtrack of once was a great writer.
My well has ran dry of intelligence and feel,am just but a spectator of my own invention.

There is a book collecting dust on the table,pages turned yet all blank.
Sited behind,staring at the ceiling,rocking back and forth,one hand on the chin,uncorked pen on the right,full piped.

This is the diary of a fallen writer.