I used to write so effortlessly, so eloquently, without pressing the backspace key, without having to rethink the entire idea. The entire thought. But now, I stare at my keyboard, and I press the keys with hesitancy. If I get lucky, there are days where my mind is so full of passion and creativity, where I don’t have to hesitate on my choice of words. Where it’s heart and soul, poured into a teakettle and left to boil until is whistles my secrets into the ears of those willing to hear them. Poured into a teacup, steaming with desire to wisp into the air and disappear into the sound waves. Sip on my thoughts, but you’re not allowed to add sugar if it’s too bitter. See, it’s raw. There’s nothing else to add, but it’s only to enjoy. But some days, where my luck is on the run — I’m left with processed thoughts filled with societies fat doubts, drenched in the grease of my own doubts also. Pressed between the buns of ludicrousness. See, sometimes I have my mind — and other days, I’m left on a vicious cycle trying to catch it.