The lost writer

Lost letters float like fireflies in my head
Words whisper maliciously, sentences suffer
The past had passion that I sincerely bled
But now inspiration feels so much rougher

Crumbled papers fill my exhausted mind
Hands more familiar with eraser than pen
I stood so high, now nothing of such kind
What has become of me if not a past then?

I used to write in color, now a bitter grey
I used to stood so secure, now a lost writer



Because I don't know what it's like to feel
happiness when writing anymore,
merely a cold passion