Robbed

It is Day 3 of the writing challenge
and i am already out of inspiration
It is unexplainably tragic when
something ends even before it starts.
My poetry doesn't exist today,
it refuses to leave my womb
I am suffering from miscarriage of words.
I wonder why none of my wounds are
up for some fresh blood, again.
Is it sadistic to want to feel so intense
that you get nostalgic about your sadness?
I am on my way to file a missing report
for all the words I was robbed of,
all the proses that were rightfully mine.
I am pissed at all the metaphors that decided to skip the auction in my mind
and sold themselves to others.
No wonder I look at some poems
and feel like the pain in mine.
It is day 3 and is hauntingly unbearable,
how I am settling for less.
I need so much more.
I deserve so much more.
God knows I am worth it,
she created me with fresh blood.
©sakshi1099