The Hindered Mind

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Inspiration has run dry, similar to faucets in a drought. Tiny fingers desperate to drown in the pure, sweet, waters turned away because they simply can not produce the strength to turn it the right way. 

The bodies fall one by one, sucked dry of everything they had. The inspiration, the need, the fight to keep going gone. 

But for what? Was it worth it to loose the things they held dear? Was it worth it to sacrafice inspiration for a glimmer of happinesss in the dark of the night?

I miss the days when I could sit, pen in hand, and bleed on the pages, heart and soul. I miss the days I could dream on end, yet how can one convey to the masses that they feel lost. 

How can someone so frail turn on a faucet to save their own life if they dont know how? 

What is the magic word to end the drought? What dance do we do to the heavens to save our people? What god do we pray to, to end the suffering? 

What in the world must we succumb to for the will to dream again?

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