Under this orange sky
I struggle to write
I struggle to speak
With far too much to say
I miss writing.. and what I miss even more, is having the ability to write. As pretentious as this may sound, I used to like what I wrote, be it poetry or just a measly little passage. I used to enjoy writing it, and used to enjoy coming back to it after a while and muse upon it as if I have never seen it before.
Parts of the reason what I stopped writing is the lack of inspiring material. One would argue, but isn’t falling in love and getting married enough material? The sad truth is love has been an inspiration to a plethora of writers and poets, but it never sparked anything in me. I was/am/and inshallah always will be head over heels for Mrs. Froggy, but even when I tried to write something romantic it just lacked character. I could make it rhyme, and that is as far as I got. It used to get to me but then I realized I can only write when something is bothering me.
I tried writing a poem today. I failed miserably. The four lines at the top are the result of the better part of an hour. I don’t like them. But I kept them an inspiration I guess; Or as a starting point.
Is it wrong to like my own writings? Does it make me pompous or shallow even? Or does it just mean I am honest in my writings.