I pick up the ball,

weigh it in my hand,

line up my feet,

my hands,

perfect my stance,

perfect my balance.

I stare down the field.

Why is it empty?

Where did the ground go?

All I see is shadowy shapes in the fog,

that change

each time I start to think

I might know

what they are.

I plump my pillow,

spread my sheets,

tuck in all the loose ends

and curl up underneath,

straighten the comforter,

straighten the quilts.

I close my eyes and

stare down sleep.

Why is it empty?

Where did my dreams go?

All I can remember

is the memories

of remembering,

that fall into forgetting

each time I start to think

I've found the right

image.

I'll throw the ball every morning,

and I'll go to sleep every night,

and I keep thinking it isn't empty,

and then I keep thinking it's all empty,

and then I don't know what emptiness is anymore.

Am I empty?

Or am I just looking too hard?

please, someone, help me

I wish to write books that at least one person enjoys and loves. What holds me back is motivation and no one really is interested in my novel writing. I got some traction when I first wrote my book on a different platform but it was short lived. Maybe someday it'll be different but until then I'm gonna take a little break from writing novels.

Another goal I have is that I can eventually be happy and myself without fear. What holds me back is my family.