Creative Writing Poetry

On those mornings when the sun and her rays refuse to peep in through my beige curtains,
when my coffee doesn’t hit my soul like it should and does every morning,
when there are no criss-crossed sunbeams gliding over my poetry books
while I read them under the big old oak tree in my backyard;
To the afternoons, when I struggle to make my mind to shower,
when my lemon lavender scented candles fail to lift up my moods too
and even the plants hanging by my window frame look twice as sad as me;
And of evenings of long car rides filled with old rock songs with my high school friends,
celebrating our heartbreaks, when I can see all what was left in the orange-pink skies
slowly starts turning into the darkest possible shade of blue;
Also those nights where all my canvases and notebooks lay untouched,
as I sit on the kitchen counter softly playing my ukulele
seeping into the darkness more and more with every sip of the half drunk bourbon
that my previous one night stand left beside my bed;
And those terrible 3 am’s when my emotions are overwhelmed by the loneliness
and all I want to is to escape, so I grab my Fiat keys
and drive for almost an hour, half drinks and half done,
to that hill top of my town and to watch the sun rise in lame hopes
to fix my broken pieces
– art came to me as an antidepressant on the day you walked out,
but days when my pen refuse to bleed words and my filled canvases fail to make any sense;
an overwhelming fear embraces me
Will my words walk out of me like you did?