My Inability To Write

I wrote better two years ago
I wrote with substance
My thoughts were debris of the unknown

I was able to scratch the paint
Off the wall
And my works meant something
They hid the treasures that I had cherished or lost

Then something happened
I grew happy
I gained friends
My will and lust to write had effaced
I was condemned by my sins

I became someone different
I was traveling in the opposite direction
Instead of maturing, I was growing more immature
I replaced my friends who held words of
Wisdom
Life
Crimes and Redemptions
With creatures that were alien to me
Who could only speak of shallow complaints
And how that ‘bitch had screwed him over”

I was a walking contradiction

My ghosts departed
My lights had dimmed
Dust covered my best friends
Dostoevsky was pushed under my bed

I admit it:
My brain is fried
The water of my thoughts have been drained from the ocean I used to drown in

Pity has pervaded
The only topics I seem to write from
Are from my past life
If only I were a ghost-
It would be more redeeming

Because in the end
Melancholy is a much more satisfying feeling