The Truth

I don't feel motivated to write. I reach
for my creative engine, and it is cold and 
vapid. This frightens me. I think, perhaps,
I have muddied my mind with too much
garbage. I am accused of being harsh on
myself, but I don't feel harshly.
I sometimes stand in a spot in nature
that should inspire awe, but I feel
nothing. No excitement. This frightens me.
I must not forget that something can
be worthy--even if it is a repeat or
a mimic. There is no shame or dishonesty
in expressing myself through treaded trails
and repeated rhapsodies.
I must remember there is greater honor
in embracing the known than forsaking it
for the unknown.