The Potty Mouth Granny

She sits with the page like an old friend who no longer speaks.

The words used to pour like honey; sometimes soft as silk, other times thunderous and filled with fire.

Now, silence. Complete silence. Voiceless.

Ideas knock but never enter. Ideas forgotten. Ideas who flew away like leaves in the wind on a warm, fall day.

Characters once vivid now hide behind curtains. Lurking in corners looking for a voice that never comes.

Every sentence feels stale, like air that’s been trapped too long.

But this too is writing.

This is not writing.

This waiting. This listening. This becoming.

Sometimes, the muse doesn’t leaves. She’s just waiting until you stop trying so hard to impress her. She’s waiting for you to find your voice and stop being scared of defeat. She’s waiting for you to find your balls.