Lately I can’t help but wonder if everything worth reading has already been written. The voice in my head that mocks originality elaborates below.
Everything has been said
Every form has been explored
All perspectives have been had
Every possible string of words has been strung
Someone has already had my ideas
And executed them
Better than I could
Wanting to be original is a terrible goal
Settling with mediocrity is even worse
“You have to be a writer when you grow up”
But I don’t know how to put meaning in words anymore
I don’t know how to dig deep
Like I used to
I’ve thrown away everything I’ve written
I don’t know why I still write
When everything has already been said
I haven’t been through some great tragedy
I write what I know and I don’t know much
Prompts enslave me
But freedom numbs me
Where do you start on a blank page?
What do you do with a sea of words on a page?
Which ones do you take out or keep in?
Does it really matter?
Everything that belongs to you is not yours
I won’t open up to you
Because I don’t want to deal with what’ll happen when you leave
I’m pretty fragmented
Lost all meaning
I used to write because I thought I had a story to tell
Now I write just to keep the pen moving