The writer and the block

I don’t feel like myself lately,
No color, no muse,
No pen to paper, no book to heart,
My poetic feelings have departed,
Leaving me alone,
Now I’m just another person moving through the day,
Instead of living it,

What is this hell I’ve been left in,
My words no longer make sense,
The pen which was a dear friend of mine,
Is like a distant stranger,
Are we alright?

I can no longer appreciate the starry skies,
Or the gloomy clouds or even the muddy puddles,
I no longer savor the sunsets,
The light which led me to write has dimmed,
Why must my writing be punished!?

How gloomy and drab i be,
All the color taken away from me
-cy