An Empty Inkwell

Creativity won't be forced,
But sometimes I crave the
Warm glow that burns within as I write,
Like the embers of a camp fire, it cannot stave off
The harsh, night wind, but brings a sense of
Belongingness as we huddle closer together around this fire,
Connecting us like the marshmallow's gooey comfort in our s'mores.
But one by one we drift apart as the embers die down, the s'mores are devoured,
And I am left alone, pleading with the dying flames to burn for me,
To once more crackle and spark with passion and fire,
But I have no more kindling for annihilation.
It gives one last flicker as it bids me adieu,
And then it is gone –
Leaving me grasping for heat in the barren ashes of my talent.