A poem that perfectly captures how I feel about writing:

[skull_bearer]

 

The Writer
—Sujata Bhatt

 

The best story of course,
is the one you can't write,
you won't write,
It's something that can only live
in your heart,
not on paper.

Paper is dry, flat.
Where is the soil
for the roots, and how do I lift out
entire trees, a whole forest
from the earth of the spirit
and transplant it on paper
without disturbing the birds?

And what about the mountain
on which the forest grows?
The waterfalls
making rivers,
rivers with throngs of trees
elbowing each other aside
to have a look
at the fish.

Beneath the fish
there are clouds.
Here, the sky ripples,
the river thunders.
How would things move on paper?

Now watch the way
the tigers' walking
shreds the paper.

*chews off own fingers. Today is not a good writing day. I've already got all of Present Perfect mapped out so it's no longer interesting. So I'm just writing and fucking up my own plans because I swear my subconscious has better ideas than I do*