Even If It Kills Me.

Have I lost it? Has the feeling really left me? All this time it's been right at my fingertips, but lately, nothing has been as exciting. The Earth has become an eerie shade of gray. I wish that I could pick up that dusty paint brush, and give back the colors that used to be so vivid. The sun is no longer that blinding shade yellow, instead, I stare at the way that is doesn't warm my pale skin anymore. It's as if Mother Earth has a cold, and I am the only one who is being effected the way that she has been affected. I wish that there was something I could do to bring all that I once had. My talent has left me, and here I am, being told that I'm talented... I wish that I could show them my latest piece, but rather, I have to show them something that was done so long ago. Time is a beautiful thing isn't it? The way that it effected us. The way it ages us, the way it has faded away my creativity. It has become too often that I pick up the pen, and stare at the page, trying to find any type of existence of what I once had inside of me, but alas, I set it back down, and walk away. The same thing applies to my art, It's so dull, lifeless, expressionless.
What has happened to me?
I stare at my hands, and watch them wither away, then disappear into the wind. I will find my way back to the way that things used to be, even if it kills me. I will become what people think that I am, I have to show them, prove to them, that I can do this.
Don't let this fade like the Earth has over the years, Let it come back to life, let it soak into my skin, and let me do this. I can't let this go, it will destroy me.
Even if it kills me.... I'm going to get it back... Even it it kills me.