Black Hole

I used to fill my pen with ink squeezed from my memories, twisted and contorted through the lens of my depression, through the heat of desire, the longing of the past. Dark thoughts and caverns of haunting realities seem like cozy caves where my mind toes the line. No longer full of words and ability. Drained of inspiration. Nothing living behind my eyes, wide with wonder. Why has my mind shut out my soul? Where is she hiding within this shell that circumstance controls?