There are places in our lives that we do not wish to touch. We avoid the weighted discomfort of our self repression because to confront such a thing is to admit our shortcomings. Being uninspired and bored often coincides with procrastinating. When we put off tasks that are tedious but necessary, it does not help! It compiles our problems and leads to our stress. Then we become itchy and short sighted. Have you put off dusting? Well, that simply will not do! I will do that and THEN, after I have finished, I will wrestle the elephant in the room.

Perhaps we are stuck feeling worthless, unimpressive, or pitiful. Perhaps we cannot pool from the well within our souls because we are empty. Tapped out. Dried up. Painfully depleted. Droughts are a terrible thing. Any friction and it will all go up in flames.

You can set ablaze and ruminate on the past. Visit betrayals, departed loves, or muse on opportunities not ceased. There is potential, but what good can it do? You can fixated on the future. The unfinished and unpredictable future.

It's best when I am uninspired to plant myself down. Bore my flesh into the ground, taste the stale air, hear the light buzzing, and close my eyes into a black abyss. Be present and find the missing piece I am in desperate need of in order to be inspired. Confront the nagging thread that is sticking up from its stitch. What has your mind consumed that you can hardly focus enough to find something in this magnificent life to he inspired by? What are you avoiding within yourself?

Feed your body something nourishing. Rest! Exercise your body as well as your mind. Connect with someone, especially if you haven't had contact in some while. Balance your life and you will find balance in your mind. Only when you are at your best will you be inspired. Life does not come to those who are drying out. It comes to those who seek to quench their thirst! And only through a life WORTH living can you pull from a deep well.

There are places in our lives that we do not wish to touch. We avoid the weighted discomfort of our self repression because to confront such a thing is to admit our shortcomings. Being uninspired and bored often coincides with procrastinating. When we put off tasks that are tedious but necessary, it does not help! It compiles our problems and leads to our stress. Then we become itchy and short sighted. Have you put off dusting? Well, that simply will not do! I will do that and THEN, after I have finished, I will wrestle the elephant in the room.

Perhaps we are stuck feeling worthless, unimpressive, or pitiful. Perhaps we cannot pool from the well within our souls because we are empty. Tapped out. Dried up. Painfully depleted. Droughts are a terrible thing. Any friction and it will all go up in flames.

You can set ablaze and ruminate on the past. Visit betrayals, departed loves, or muse on opportunities not ceased. There is potential, but what good can it do? You can fixated on the future. The unfinished and unpredictable future.

It's best when I am uninspired to plant myself down. Bore my flesh into the ground, taste the stale air, hear the light buzzing, and close my eyes into a black abyss. Be present and find the missing piece I am in desperate need of in order to be inspired. Confront the nagging thread that is sticking up from its stitch. What has your mind consumed that you can hardly focus enough to find something in this magnificent life to he inspired by? What are you avoiding within yourself?

Feed your body something nourishing. Rest! Exercise your body as well as your mind. Connect with someone, especially if you haven't had contact in some while. Balance your life and you will find balance in your mind. Only when you are at your best will you be inspired. Life does not come to those who are drying out. It comes to those who seek to quench their thirst! And only through a life WORTH living can you pull from a deep well.

The missile tokens rounded the board, each moved by the numbers thrown on the dice. It was a stalemate thus far.

Player One: "I'll trade you New York for Moscow."

Player Two: "Moscow has 5 million more people. Will you consider adding Los Angeles."

Player One: "No way."

Player Two: "Really? It's a good deal. It's still less than a million."

Player One: "Lemme think about it. Roll the dice."

Player Two rolled a seven and landed on the USA USS District of Columbia. He drew a card:

YOU HAVE LANDED ON AN OHIO-CLASS US NUCLEAR SUBMARINE CARRYING 154 TOMAHAWK CRUISE MISSILES. SURRENDER A CITY.

Player Two: "Shit. OK, take Krasnoyarsk."

Player One: "No way, Comrade. I'd rather have Novosibirsk."

Player Two: "No deal, Yank. Look at Krasnoyarsk again. Hell, it's the second-largest city in Siberia. Lots of aluminum for you."

Player One: "Hmm. OK, we can always use more aluminum."

Player Two: "I'm getting tired. This game goes on forever. Let's just call it a draw. I mean, no one wins until one of us throws the entire board in the air."

Player One: "Then there's no winner."

Player Two: "What's the difference?"

Player One: "Haha!"

Player Two: "Haha!"

Wondering somehow, even though I can barely think

Wishing I knew what I could do.

I want to talk to people,

but I don't think I have the energy for it.

I want to draw,

but what?

Nothing is popping at me.

I want to write, but I can't feel enough to do so.

So I watch the blood pump through my veins.

Motivated.

Knowing exactly what it wants and is doing.

Pain helps me think, but I don't feel up to it.

Driving to, but the moons not out.

The music isn't hitting right, if anything it's making me sleep.

I want to do something.

I want to sing, but my voice is to tired.

Plus, I don't know what to sing

I want to write

but my soul has been cut from me and I can't find words

I wish

But with no dandelions.

I love,

but with no heart.

I move, but with no energy.

Waiting for the ideas to hit me like they once did.

But until then, I'll be a robot.

Few thoughts,

cold,

working,

but always trying to be something else.

Until my serrated edge gets sharpened into a smooth line.

Until I'm able to cut right to the soul with one stroke.

Lack of inspiration is a nightmare, except not really, because nightmares can sometimes be creative in their misery. Being uninspired is just miserable misery, just aimlessly tapping words on a screen without any idea why you’re doing it, where it’ll lead, if anyone else will ever read it.

This morning has been frustration after frustration after frustration, my parents irritatingly broke in all of their bank accounts and sounding like broken records as they forget the answers to questions they’ve already asked each other, again and that’t not even addressing the irritating bullshit that is the fact I’m getting sent to work early today, meaning I don’t know how or when or if lunch will happen, so I’m grumpy before I’ve even left the house, typing this half-awake, unsure what the fuck I’m doing. Mom just acquiesced that I’ll get to go home between the doctor’s appointment and work.

Still I’m typing this text because I’m uninspired to type out any real writing. The writing game I use, 4thewords, at least is somewhat inspiring, with a flaming blue and purple sword wielded by a baby with a skull face. If nothing else, sometimes just describing the word count monsters can act as inspiration when I have nothing worth writing about. Like now, wherein my only reason for continuing to write currently is the desire to defeat some of these sword-wielding skull babies called Kinguz. The internet is also filled with writing prompts. Then the willingness to write comes down to motivation mainly, which is a different beast than inspiration.

the way to beat

the uninspired trap

is to write and post

even if it's crap*

why must you chase

the curse of perfection?

when the worst case is

you'll taste of rejection

so you'll get no likes

from those who read it

well at least you're writing—

and they can all eat shit.

rather be a writer

who some other writers block

than paralyzed in tears

with that dreaded writer's block

*such as this poem

1/21/2025

I was feeling uninspired and creatively dulled. Oh, I could write about anything easily, really. I could draft a predictable romance or some stupid dragon fantasy. I could tell a cautionary tale or even take a thrill ride on a stream-of-consciousness piece. I could involve animals for cuteness, irony, metaphor, or even to champion animal rights. Space battles? Easy!

I could wield maudlin, chagrin, regret, irony, epiphany, metaphor, and even the dark in ways that are good but, regrettably, had all been done before. Dark and stormy nights are for pussies! The best of times really are the worst.

I'm yawning.

All that's been done before. Where's the fun in such things?

There are no new twists to be had. Writing—good writing—is not just recycling. Emulate Hemmingway? There are still Hemmingways around in his estate to pay a lawyer for a cease-and-desist. Rip off Vonnegut? Yeah, just try. It won't even be close. Channel the NYT best sellers? You don't have a head start, so forgeddabout it. Magic, witches, wizards vs coming-of-age, thrillers, or whodunnits? I'm not just yawning.

I'm desperate.

I must write something that's never been read before. That's the only way I can climb Mazlow's pyramid. I want a sentence that has never been uttered to leap off the page and hook the stupid agent who insists on that "good fit."

The opening line would have to be unique, totally novel, even startling but, most importantly, be something that's never been said or read before—in English or any language.

And so I begin...

He looked like a millionaire on a horse. (I don't exactly know what that means, but a millionaire on a horse must look some good.)

Quick, hand me the piano! (That depends on who's saying it. You wouldn't want a large percussion instrument to fall into the wrong hands. After all, it's not just black and white.)

The way I see it, Hitler had a point. (No, wait, someone said that recently, although Grammarly reports, "This text is well-written.")

I loved her like a cactus. (Although I could wrap a whole novella around explaining how that was true.)

Even the cows laughed at my thumbs. (Has anyone ever tested the cow demographic about thumbs? Gotta think.)

We made love on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day as the bullets flew over us. (I'm afraid I can't write that, even if I want to write something that's never been written before. There are limits to both the laws of physics and the rules to lovemaking that cannot be broken. Well, maybe the laws of physics.)

We made love on the beaches of Normandy the day after D-Day, the spent bullets in the sand no more bothersome than the sand fleas. (Now you're talkin'!)

On the day my father died, I beat Mick Jagger bowling, two games out of three, blindfolded. (Imagine the exposition derived from explaining that Mick Jagger is my father and that I used The Force to beat him.)

My wastebasket fills with single, crumpled sheets, each with a single impossible sentence. Some sentences, it turns out, are dead on arrival. I throw a match in, the impossible sentences are, again, impossible, as the paper ashes float away.

No wonder I'm never a good fit. And no wonder I'm no damn millionaire on no damn horse! And now I wonder about my thumbs.

I just write something I actually quite liked, but I can't finish the last line and now I hate it. Also, I don't feel that it is relatable to other people. Most of us don't hear voices in our head or refer to ourselves in the plural. I often do and subsequently when I write like that I feel like no one will want to read it. So, yes. There is my uninspired, self hating author statement if the day.

Hands still; face blank, pale,

Here I am unwound again,

Naked as the moon.

J.M.Liles ©️2025