Echo.

The sadness perforates deeply through my being. There are so many words and thoughts and feelings running back and forth in my head, wanting constantly to be expressed. Yet I can hardly even process half of it. And even when I have, when I've finally grasped it and built it to be propagated, I can never find the right words to do so.

Lately, my paper has just been an unflappable whirlwind of capricious and haphazardly written emotions. I'm like a child that doodles with crayons. My colors are never right and despite knowing and wanting to draw within the lines, finding that I'm not capable of doing so.

And like a child, I can only stare at my drawing in frustration, wanting to learn and grow up and be better, yet, I sit here helplessly feeling despondent, still feeling all the words and thoughts and feelings and not knowing what to do with myself.

These words I write are but an echo of it all.

I don't understand where my inspiration went.