I am a writer who's hands are used to be inked.
I always have that blue pen in my hands.
Writing about love, nature, and beauty.
But as I scrabbled more words in my paper.
I don't know what is happening.
I can't write anymore.
I tried feeling my heart but the rythm of passion is not there anymore.
I looked around me, I cannot see the beauty.
I inhaled deeply so the freshness of nature could relax me.
But it didn't relaxed me, I was choked by the polluted air surrounding the nature.
Everything has no color, its just me who has the color.
There's one thing left in me, my love of my life.
I held his hands but he is already losing his color.
I immidiately hugged him tight but as my hug gets tighter, the more he easily losing he's color.
I let go of him, as I lost my colors too.
And now I am a writer who can't write anymore.
For I have lost my inspiration and so my passion.